372 The Mourning Dove 



a few inches below the nest, was the red thug. 

 The two were playing a small but thrilling selec- 

 tion from the great drama of life and death. The 

 heroic dove was firmly braced above her almost 

 hatched treasures, and with one wing raised as a 

 fencer raises his swordless hand, she faced her foe 

 with the courage of despair. Her fighting wing 

 was nervously patting her side, ready for instant 

 action, while her dainty head kept nodding an 

 undying defiance. As I held the best trump 

 out, I let them play a bit. 



From his position, all the squirrel could see 

 was the dove's head and her wild eye, and, skir- 

 mish as he would, that eye never lost him. If he 

 shifted around the trunk, the dove turned with 

 him — in fact, he could go around the tree, but 

 not around the dove. His object, of course, was 

 to rush the position, and I soon discovered that 

 there was but one place which offered him an 

 easy course, and that he knew it. All the time 

 he kept up a curious purring noise and a rasping 

 with his teeth as though he were gnawing some 

 hard substance — this, in all probability, intended 

 to intimidate the dove. 



" Stay with him, old lady — there's reenforce- 

 ments," I chuckled to myself, but I wanted to 

 see more. 



Presently the squirrel worked back to the real 

 point of attack, and with a scream he thrust his 



