183 



Again you hear his cry low, harsh, wail- 

 ing. So might a lost soul call back across 

 the Styx for the partner of its ill -deeds 

 done in the body. The cry is answered 

 once, twice, thrice. Other wings are spread; 

 other fiery eyes gleam through the deepen- 

 ing dusk. Five huge creatures are flapping, 

 lurching, hooting atop of this sylvan ghost 

 the poor tree, bare of all its pretty frip- 

 pery of branch and bough. Only three big 

 prongs remain to it. The first comer chose 

 the highest for his seat, and perches there 

 defiant of the later ones who wheel threat- 

 eningly around him. 



Presently there is a bird on each tip, ruf- 

 fling hate and scorn at the two who lag 

 superfluous on the scene. But the slug- 

 gards are in no wise cast down. They have 

 pluck, or temper, and to spare. See them 

 circle to the clearing's utmost verge, then 

 sweep, full flight, upon their fellows so in- 

 sultingly uplifted. Mighty human that ! 

 Who of us has not burned with the right- 

 eousness of our wrath against some con- 

 spicuous self-poised usurper our yearning 

 to dislodge him ? 



Evidently one of these usurpers is a faint- 

 heart, all unworthy to wear his feathered 

 spurs. He avoids the shock of battle, 



