he air, ready for battle.

It was not the precious nest, however, nor the owners of the nest, on
which the fierce eyes of the marsh-hawk had fallen. When he was within
twenty paces of the nest he dropped into the grass. There was a moment
of thrashing wings, then he rose again, and beat back toward the river
with a young muskrat in his talons.

Considering the size and savagery of the hawk, any small bird but the
little king would have been well content with his riddance. Not so the
king-birds. With shrill chirpings they sped to the rescue. Their wings
cuffed the marauder's head in a fashion that confused him. Their
wedge-like beaks menaced his eyes and brought blood through the short
feathers on the top of his head. He could make no defence or
counter-attack against opponents so small and so agile of wing. At
length a sharp jab split the lower lid of one eye,--and this added
fear to his embarrassment. He dropped the muskrat, which fell into the
river and swam off little the worse for the experience.

Relieved of his burden, the hawk made all speed to escape. At the
farther shore the female king-bird desisted from the pursuit, and
hurried back to her nest. But the avenging wrath of the male was not
so easily pacified. Finding the tormentor still at his head, the hawk
remembered the security of the upper air, and began to mount in sharp
spirals. The king-bird pursued till, seen from the earth, he seemed no
bigger than a bee dancing over the hawk's back. Then he disappeared
altogether; and the hawk, but for his nervous, harassed flight, might
have seemed to be alone in that clear altitude. At last his wings
were seen to steady themselves into the tranquil, majestic soaring of
his kind. Presently, far below the soaring wings, appeared a tiny dark
shape, zigzagging swiftly downward; and soon the king-bird, hastening
across the river, alighted once more on his branch and began to preen
himself composedly.

The Kill

It was early winter and early morning, and the first of the light lay
sharp on the new snow. The sun was just lifting over a far and low
horizon. Long, level rays, streaking the snow with straight,
attenuated stains of pinkish gold and sharp lines of smoky-blue
shadow, pierced the edges of the tall fir forests of Touladi. Though
every tint--of the blackish-green firs, of the black-brown trunks, of
the violet and yellow and gray birch saplings, of the many-hued snow
spaces--was unspeakably tender and