Uncle Felix
must see to that first.
The big man opened his eyes very wide. He shuddered. "It's a--Thing,"
was the answer, given in a whisper that increased the excitement of
anticipation. "It certainly is a--Thing! Now hush! It's coming!"
They listened then intently. And a sound _was_ heard. Out of the
starry summer night it came, quite softly, and from very far away--
upon discovery bent, upon adventure. Reconnoitering, as from some deep
ambush in the shrubberies where the blackbirds hid and whistled, it
flew down against the house, stared in at the nursery windows,
fluttered up and down the glass with a marvellous, sweet humming--and
was gone again.
"Listen!" the man's voice whispered; "it will come back presently. It
saw us. It's awfully shy--"
"Why is it awfully shy?" asked Judy in an undertone.
"Because people make it mean so much more than it means to mean," he
replied darkly. "It never gets a chance to be just itself and play its
own lonely game--"
"We've called it things," she stated.
"But we haven't written books about it and put it into poetry," Uncle
Felix corrected her with an audacity that silenced them.
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