THE KILLDEER 



of big birds were swarming over him or fighting for place on the 

 freshly turned earth at his heels. 



"T 'check! T 'check! T'chee!" cried a whole flock of 

 Blackbirds, the sun flashing, on their iridescent satin wings and 

 sleek heads, as they circled around or stepped gracefully down the 

 furrow, searching for grubs. Sombre-coated Crows cawed in 

 full-fed satisfaction, while plump-breasted Robins cried, "Kip, 

 kip ! Cut, cut, cut ! " in exultation over each juicy morsel. There 

 was the azure flash of the Bluebird's wing as he occasionally 

 stopped searching for nest locations along the old snake fence or 

 in the high stumps to dart down for some small insect. There 

 was the plaintive cry of the Killdeers, and the silver gleam of 

 their snowy underwings and breasts as they hung over a pool, fed 

 by wells drilled to produce oil and contrarily producing water; 

 while Meadow Larks left their nests in the adjoining wheat-field, 

 making excursions from high stumps and fence riders to secure 

 their share of the feast, then returning again to proclaim the 

 season with notes of piercing melody. 



Twenty fields had been passed in the process of spring plowing 

 that day; a few scared birds hanging over the fences or scattering 

 before the crack of a shot-gun were all that could be seen. There 

 was only one John above whom they swarmed in absolute con- 

 fidence; there was only one John who paused a second now and 

 then to kick]open big pieces of muck, or stooped to break them with 

 his hands and fling the grubs to the birds. And was he not wise? 

 Was not their trust in him, the company they were to him, the 

 music they made for him, a soul-feast for any man? Was not 

 every grub and worm eaten then one less to prey on his young crop 

 later? 



Long before I reached the stake set to guide me, a clear, 

 musical "Te-dit! Te-dit!" rang from a sentinel above the 

 swamp, then straight toward me on slender stilt-legs a female 



105 



