VII
The Calm Evening
It was a calm June evening, the time of the second daily outburst ofbird song, the day's aftermath. The singers seemed to be in unusualnumbers as well. Nearly every good perch had some little bird thatseemed near bursting with joy and yet trying to avert that direcatastrophe.
As the boys went down the road by the outer fence of their own orcharda Hawk came sailing over, silencing as he came the singing within agiven radius. Many of the singers hid, but a Meadow Lark that had beenwhistling on a stake in the open was now vainly seeking shelter in thebroad field. The Hawk was speeding his way. The Lark dodged and put onall power to reach the orchard, but the Hawk was after him now--wasgaining--in another moment would, have clutched the terrifiedmusician, but out of the Apple trees there dashed a smallblack-and-white bird--the Kingbird. With a loud harsh twitter--hiswar-cry--repeated again and again, with his little gray head-feathersraised to show the blood-and-flame-coloured undercrest--his warcolours--he darted straight at the great robber.
"Clicker-a-clicker," he fairly screamed, and made for the huge Hawk,ten times his size.
"Clicker-a-clicker!" he shrieked, like a cateran shouting the"slogan," and down like a black-and-white dart--to strike the Hawkfairly between the shoulders just as the Meadow Lark dropped indespair to the bare ground and hid its head from the approachingstroke of death.
"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the Hawk wheeled in sudden consternation."Clicker-a-clicker"--and the dauntless little warrior dropped betweenhis wings, stabbing and tearing.
The Hawk bucked like a mustang, the Kingbird was thrown, but sprung onagile pinions above again.
"Clicker-a-clicker," and he struck as before. Large brown featherswere floating away on the breeze now. The Meadow Lark was forgotten.The Hawk thought only of escape.
"Clicker-a-clicker," the slogan still was heard. The Hawk was puttingon all speed to get away, but the Kingbird was riding him most of thetime. Several brown feathers floated down, the Hawk dwindled in thedistance to a Sparrow and the Kingbird to a fly dancing on his back.The Hawk made a final plunge into a thicket, and the king came homeagain, uttering the shrill war-cry once or twice, probably to let thequeen know that he was coming back, for she flew to a high branch ofthe Apple tree where she could greet the returning hero. He came withan occasional "clicker-a-clicker"--then, when near her, he sprungfifty feet in the air and dashed down, screaming his slogan withoutinterruption, darting zigzag with the most surprising evolutions andturns--this way, that way, sideways and downward, dealing thedeadliest blows right and left at an imaginary foe, then soared, anddid it all over again two or three times, just to show how far he wasfrom being tired, and how much better he could have done it had itbeen necessary. Then with a final swoop and a volley of "clickers" hedashed into the bush to receive the congratulations of the one forwhom it all was meant and the only spectator for whose opinion hecared in the least.
"Clicker-a-clicker!' he shrieked ... and down like adart."]
"Now, ain't that great," said Sam, with evident sincerity andpleasure. His voice startled Yan and brought him back. He had beenwholly lost in silent admiring wonder of the dauntless littleKingbird.
A Vesper Sparrow ran along the road before them, flitting a fewfeet ahead each time they overtook it and showing the white outertail-feathers as it flew.
"A little Graybird," remarked Sam.
"No, that isn't a Graybird; that's a Vesper Sparrow," exclaimed Yan,in surprise, for he knew he was right.
"Well, _I_ dunno," said Sam, yielding the point.
"I thought you said you knew every bird that flies and all about it"replied his companion, for the memory of this first day was strongwith him yet.
Sam snorted: "I didn't know you then. I was just loadin' you up soyou'd think I was a wonderful feller, an' you did, too--for awhile."
A Red-headed Woodpecker, carrying a yellow butterfly, flew on a fencestake ahead of them and peeped around as they drew near. The settingsun on his bright plumage, the lilac stake and the yellow butterfly,completed a most gorgeous bit of colour and gave Yan a thrill of joy.A Meadow Lark on a farther stake, a Bluebird on another, and a VesperBird on a stone, each added his appeal to eye and ear, till Samexclaimed:
"Oh, ain't that awful nice?" and Yan was dumb with a sort of saddenedjoy.
Birds hate the wind, and this was one of those birdy days that comeonly with a dead calm.
They passed a barn with two hundred pairs of Swallows flying andtwittering around, a cut bank of the road had a colony of 1,000 SandMartins, a stream had its rattling Kingfishers, and a marsh was theplayground of a multitude of Red-winged Blackbirds.
Yan was lifted up with the joy of the naturalist at seeing so manybeautiful living things. Sam felt it, too; he grew very silent, andthe last half-mile to the "Corner" was passed without a word. Theboots were got. Sam swung them around his neck and the boys set outfor home. The sun was gone, but not the birds, and the spell of theevening was on them still. A Song Sparrow by the brook and a Robinhigh in the Elm were yet pouring out their liquid notes in thegloaming.
"I wish I could be always here," said Yan, but he started a littlewhen he remembered how unwilling he had been to come.
There was a long silence as they lingered on the darkening road. Eachwas thinking hard.
A loud, startling but soft "Ohoo--O-hoo--O-hoooooo," like the coo of agiant dove, now sounded about their heads in a tree. They stopped andSam whispered, "Owl; big Hoot Owl." Yan's heart leaped with pleasure.He had read all his life of Owls, and even had seen them alive incages, but this was the first time he had ever heard the famoushooting of the real live wild Owl, and it was a delicious experience.
The night was quite dark now, but there were plenty of sounds thattold of life. A Whippoorwill was chanting in the woods, a hundredToads and Frogs creaked and trilled, a strange rolling, laughing cryon a marshy pond puzzled them both, then a Song Sparrow in the blacknight of a dense thicket poured forth its sweet little sunshine songwith all the vigour and joy of its best daytime doing.
They listened attentively for a repetition of the serenade, when ahigh-pitched but not loud "_Wa--wa--wa--wa--wa--wa--wa--wa_!"reached their ears from a grove of heavy timbers.
"Hear that?" exclaimed Sam.
Again it came, a quavering squall, apparently much nearer. It was arather shrill sound, quite unbirdy, and Sam whispered:
"Coon--that's the whicker of a Coon. We can come down here some timewhen corn's 'in roastin'' an' have a Coon hunt."
"Oh, Sam, wouldn't that be glorious!" said Yan. "How I wish it wasnow. I never saw a Coon hunt or any kind of a hunt. Do we have to waittill 'roasting-ear' time?"
"Oh, yes; it's easier to find them then. You say to your Coons, 'Mean' me dogs will meet you to-night at the nearest roastin'-ear patch,'an' sure nuff _they'll_ keep the appointment."
"But they're around now, for we just heard one, _and there'sanother_."
A long faint "_Lil--lil--lil--lil--lil--li-looo!_" now soundedfrom the trees. It was like the other, but much softer and sweeter.
"There's where you fool yerself," replied Sam, "an' there's where manya hunter is fooled. That last one's the call of a Screech Owl. You seeit's softer and whistlier than the Coon whicker."
They heard it again and again from the trees. It was a sweet musicalsound, and Yan remembered how squally the Coon call was in comparison,and yet many hunters never learn the difference.
As they came near the tree whence the Owl called at intervals, a grayblot went over their heads, shutting out a handful of stars for amoment as it passed over them, but making no noise. "There he goes,"whispered Sam. "That's the Screech Owl. Not much of a screech, wasit?" Not long afterward Yan came across a line of Lowell's which says,"The song of the Screech Owl is the sweetest sound in nature," andappreciated the absurdity of the name.
"I want to go on a Coon hunt," continued Yan, and the sentence wasjust tinged with the deep-laid doggedness that was usually lost in hiscourteous manner.
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"That settles it," answered the other, for he was learning what thattone meant. "We'll surely go when you talk that way, for, of coorse,it _kin_ be done. You see, I know more about animals than birds,"he continued. "I'm just as likely to be a dentist as a hunter so faras serious business is concerned, but I'd sure love to be a hunter forawhile, an' I made Da promise to go with me some time. Maybe we kinget a Deer by going back ten miles to the Long Swamp. I only wish Daand Old Caleb hadn't fought, 'cause Caleb sure knows the woods, an'that old Hound of his has treed more Coons than ye could shake a stickat in a month o' Sundays."
"Well, if that's the only Coon dog around, I'm going to get him.You'll see," was the reply.
"I believe you will," answered Sam, in a tone of mixed admiration andamusement.
It was ten o'clock when they got home, and every one was in bed butMr. Raften. The boys turned in at once, but next morning, on goingto the barn, they found that Si had not only sewed on and hemmed thesmoke-flaps, but had resewn the worst of the patches and hemmed thewhole bottom of the teepee cover with a small rope in the hem, so thatthey were ready now for the pins and poles.
The cover was taken at once to the camp ground. Yan carried the axe.When they came to the brush fence over the creek at the edge of theswamp, he said:
"Sam, I want to blaze that trail for old Caleb. How do you do it?"
"Spot the trees with the axe every few yards."
"This way?" and Yan cut a tree in three places, so as to show threewhite spots or blazes.
"No; that's a trapper's blaze for a trap or a 'special blaze', buta 'road blaze' is one on the front of the tree and one on theback--so--then ye can run the trail both ways, an' you put themthicker if it's to be followed at night."