CHAPTER IX 



THE DANCE IN THE ALDER SWALE 



EARLY dusk of a cold March night was fall- 

 ing. The two red maple trees in the little 

 alder swale beyond the pasture bars stood pen- 

 ciled on the gray sky. A robin had been sing- 

 ing, but now the deep winter hush had crept back 

 over the gray fields. 



Suddenly there was a hiss and a swift winnow 

 of wings close above my head. I dodged. Past 

 me, lined for the swale, with a quick, twisting 

 flight as if fired from a rifle, sped a bird. 



"He's back!" I exclaimed. "He escaped!" 

 And through my cold, rain-soaked world of wood 

 and field and alder swale shot a new, wild thrill 



