Atalapha, a Winged Brownie 
than the skimming, fur-clad Bat. Perhaps he kills 
a thousand insects in a night. All of these are 
possibly plague-bearers. Some of them are surely 
infected and carry in their tiny baleful bodies the 
power to desolate a human home. Yes! every 
time a Bat scoops up a flying bug it deals a telling 
blow at mankind’s foes. There is no creature 
winged or walking in the woods that should be 
better prized, protected, blessed, than this, the 
harmless, beautiful, beneficent Bat. 
And yet, young Haskins of the Mill, when his 
uncle gave him a shotgun for his birthday, must 
need begin with practice on these fur-clad swallows 
of the night that skimmed about the milldam when 
the sun went down behind the nearer hills. 
Again and again he fired without effect. The 
flittering swarm was baffling in its speed or its 
tortuous course. But ammunition was plentiful, 
and he blazed away. One or two of the smaller 
Bats dropped into the woods, while others escaped 
only to die of their wounds. The light was nearly 
gone from the western sky when Atalapha, too, 
came swooping down the valley about the limpid 
pond. His long, sharp wings were set as he sailed 
to drink from the river surface. His unusual size 
caught the gunner’s eye, he aimed and fired. With 
a scream of pain the great Bat fell in the stream, 
179 
