WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS YOUNG 113 



near the cloud-like foliage, within which I can 

 make out one by one the fat caricatures of young 

 birds. It is not their nesting tree. The family 

 is out for its first flight, and the old birds, having 

 seen me long ago, are trying to get the young ones 

 to move on to a safer place. But the latter are 

 tired and like the place where they are, and this 

 morning of the whole year Farmer Moriarty 

 would have a fine chance of getting even with the 

 hoodies by shooting with luck the old birds first, 

 and then destroying their young at his leisure. 



Farmer Moriarty has a fine brood of quarter- 

 grown turkey poults running in the field with 

 their mother. The young things are running 

 here and there, enjoying this wonderful life to the 

 full, pecking new young grubs from the grass 

 bents, and adding to the joys of dinner the zest 

 of sport by chasing flying and jumping things. 

 An indigo shadow falls on the fresh green of the 

 field, and the mother calls wildly the order to 

 concentrate. She makes off for the hedge, her 

 chicks following with all the speed of their baby 

 legs. The indigo shadow deepens and falls ; 

 a huge bird strikes the field behind the last running 

 poult, then bounces and falls on the chick. It 

 rises labouring into the air with the chick in its 

 talons. The mother turkey rushes at the marauder, 

 even follows it on the wing to the height of the 

 tall hedge, and almost catches it before it gets 

 into its stroke. But her anger is unavailing, and 

 the first toll from Farmer Moriarty's turkey flock 



