Being too young to fly, it could do nothing but
flutter to the ground and squat there, beating its wings till the
mother came to look for it. How she managed to pick it up again so
neatly, I can't say. But you saw for yourself how neat it was, eh?"
The Child nodded his head vigorously and smacked his lips in agreement.
"But why does she carry them around with her that way?" he inquired.
"It seems to me awfully dangerous. I don't think _I'd_ like it."
He pictured to himself his own substantial mamma swooping erratically
through the air, with skirts flying out behind and himself clinging
precariously to her neck. And at the thought he felt a sinking
sensation at the pit of his stomach.
"Well, you know, you're not a bat," said Uncle Andy sententiously. "If
you were you'd probably think it much pleasanter, and far _less_
dangerous, than being left at home alone while your mother was out
swooping 'round after moths and June bugs.'"
"Why?" demanded the Child promptly.
"Well, you just listen a bit," answered Uncle Andy in his exasperating
way. He hated to answer any of the Child's most innocent questions
directly if he could get at them in a roundabout way. "Once upon a
time"--("Ugh!" thought the Child to himself, "_this_ is going to be a
fairy story!" But it wasn't).
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