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drops half-way to earth, checks his descent 

 with a quick outstretching of wings, and 

 sails off down the "woodland, sweeping so 

 low as almost to dazzle you with the gleam 

 of his green eyes. 



Peace comes of his exit. The rest some- 

 how make terms, and perch together, fling- 

 ing their wild, intermittent hooting out into 

 the darkening world. What powerful, trem- 

 ulous discord they set up ! as audible a mile 

 away as here within ten rods. 



From a near hollow oak a screech-owl 

 begins to call. How contemptuously the 

 big wings overbear and drown the cry of 

 their puny congener. He is an odd fellow 

 a sort of pretentious poor relation, owlish 

 mainly in his voice. That is eerie enough 

 in all conscience to superstitious folk, the 

 sure forerunner of death or ill-luck; which 

 you can, however, avert by flinging at the 

 bird either salt or a sweet potato over your 

 left shoulder. 



The dusk has other voices. Far down 

 the hill a faint cry sounds, and is answered 

 from the bluff. Your ear would fail to mark 

 it in other than this thick, still, hearing air. 

 There is blood-thirst in the cry; cunning, 

 too; and the cautious wisdom of experience. 

 Reynard the Fox gives tongue but rarely. 



