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CHAPTER VIII
LITTLE SILK WING
The first of the twilight over Silverwater. So ethereal were the thin
washes of palest orange and apple-green reflection spreading over the
surface of the lake, out beyond the fringe of alder bushes, so
bubble-like in delicacy the violet tones of the air among the trees,
just fading away into the moth-wing brown of dusk, that the Child was
afraid to ask even the briefest questions, lest his voice should break
the incomparable enchantment. Uncle Andy sat smoking, his eyes
withdrawn in a dream. From the other side of the point, quite out of
sight, where Bill was washing the dishes after the early camp supper,
came a soft clatter of tins. But the homely sound had no power to jar
the quiet.
The magic of the hour took it, and transmuted it, and made it a note in
the chord of the great stillness. From the pale greenish vault of sky
came a long, faint twang as of a silver string, where the swoop of a
night hawk struck the tranced air to a moment's vibration. A minute or
two later the light splash of a small trout leaping, and then, from the
heart of the hemlock wood further down the shore, the mellow
_hoo-hoo-hoo-oo_ of a brown owl.
The Child was squatting on the mossy turf and staring out, round-eyed,
across the water.
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