MOBBED IN ARIZONA 213 



actually meant violence. They were doing pre- 

 cisely what a flock of crows does to an owl or 

 a hawk: they were mobbing me. "Quark, 

 quark ! Hit him, there ! Hit him ! Pick his eyes 

 out!" 



The commotion lasted for at least half a mile. 

 Then the birds wearied of it, and went off about 

 their business. All but one of them, I mean to 

 say. He had no such notion. For ten minutes 

 longer he stayed by. His persistency was devil- 

 ish. It became almost unbearable. The single 

 voice was more exasperating even than the chorus. 

 If the famous albatross carried on after any such 

 outrageous fashion, I have no stones to throw at 

 the Ancient Mariner. He acted well within his 

 rights. If I had had a crossbow, and had been 

 as good a marksman as he was, with " his 

 glittering eye," there would have been one less 

 raven in Arizona, and no questions asked. If a 

 dead calm had succeeded, so much the better. 

 " Quark, quark ! " the black villain cried, wag- 

 ging his impish head, and swooping low to spit 

 the insult into my ear. 



But all things have an end, as leaves have 

 their time to fall, and even a raven's persever- 

 ance will wear out at last. Perhaps the bird 

 grew hungry. At all events he gave over the 

 assault, stillness fell upon the desert, and an 



