and was doing his best to get away to his nest, where his young
ones were clamoring. Over him soared the eagle, still as fate and as
sure, now dropping to flap a wing in Ismaquehs' face, now touching him
with his great talons gently, as if to say, "Do you feel that,
Ismaquehs? If I grip once 't will be the end of you and your fish
together. And what will the little ones do then, up in the nest on
the old pine? Better drop him peacefully; you can catch
another.--_Drop him_! I say."

[Illustration: Ismaquehs]

Up to that moment the eagle had merely bothered the big hawk's flight,
with a gentle reminder now and then that he meant no harm, but wanted
the fish which he could not catch himself. Now there was a change, a
flash of the king's temper. With a roar of wings he whirled round the
hawk like a tempest, bringing up short and fierce, squarely in his
line of flight. There he poised on dark broad wings, his yellow eyes
glaring fiercely into the shrinking soul of Ismaquehs, his talons
drawn hard back for a deadly strike. And Simmo the Indian, who had run
down to join me, muttered: "Cheplahgan mad now. Ismaquehs find-um out
in a minute."

But Ismaquehs knew just when to stop. With a cry of rage he dropped,
or rather threw, his fish, hoping it would strike the water and be
lost. On the instant the eagle wheeled out of the way and bent his
head sharply. I had seen him fold wings and drop before, and had held
my breath at the speed. But dropping was of no use now, for the fish
fell faster. Instead he swooped downward, adding to the weight of his
fall the push of his strong wings, glancing down like a bolt to catch
the fish ere it struck the water, and rising again in a great
curve--up and away steadily, evenly as the king should fly, to his
own little ones far away on the mountain.

Weeks before, I had had my introduction to Old Whitehead, as Gillie
called him, on the Madawaska. We were pushing up river on our way to
the wilderness, when a great outcry and the _bang-bang_ of a gun
sounded just ahead. Dashing round a wooded bend, we came upon a man
with a smoking gun, a boy up to his middle in the river, trying to get
across, and, on the other side, a black sheep running about _baaing_
at every jump.

"He's taken the lamb; he's taken the lamb!" shouted the boy. Following
the direction of his pointing finger, I saw Old Whitehead, a splendid
bird, rising heavily above the tree-tops across the clearing. Reaching
back almost