d there, twenty feet above
the lake, a young kingfisher--one of Koskomenos' frowzy-headed,
wild-eyed-youngsters--was whirling wildly at the end of my line. He had
seen the minnow trailing a hundred feet astern and, with more hunger
than discretion, had swooped for it promptly. Simmo, feeling the tug but
seeing nothing behind him, had struck promptly, and the hook went home.

I seized the line and began to pull in gently. The young kingfisher came
most unwillingly, with a continuous clatter of protest that speedily
brought Koskomenos and his mate, and two or three of the captive's
brethren, in a wild, clamoring about the canoe. They showed no lack of
courage, but swooped again and again at the line, and even at the
man who held it. In a moment I had the youngster in my hand, and had
disengaged the hook. He was not hurt at all, but terribly frightened; so
I held him a little while, enjoying the excitement of the others, whom
the captive's alarm rattle kept circling wildly about the canoe. It was
noteworthy that not another bird heeded the cry or came near. Even in
distress they refused to recognize the outcast. Then, as Koskomenos
hovered on quivering wings just over my head, I tossed the captive close
up beside him. "There, Koskomenos, take your young chuckle-head, and
teach him better wisdom. Next time you see me stalking a bear, please go
on with your fishing."

But there was no note of gratitude in the noisy babel that swept up the
bay after the kingfishers. When I saw them again, they were sitting on
a dead branch, five of them in a row, chuckling and clattering all at
once, unmindful of the minnows that played beneath them. I have no doubt
that, in their own way, they were telling each other all about it.

MEEKO THE MISCHIEF-MAKER

There is a curious Indian legend about Meeko the red squirrel--the
Mischief-Maker, as the Milicetes call him--which is also an excellent
commentary upon his character. Simmo told it to me, one day, when we had
caught Meeko coming out of a woodpecker's hole with the last of a brood
of fledgelings in his mouth, chuckling to himself over his hunting.

Long ago, in the days when Clote Scarpe ruled the animals, Meeko was
much larger than he is now, large as Mooween the bear. But his temper
was so fierce, and his disposition so altogether bad that all the wood
folk were threatened with destruction. Meeko killed right and left with
the temper of a weasel, who kills from pure lust of bl