Robert White, Jr. 315 



decided to venture forth. His wing did not greatly 

 pain him, but he was ravenously hungry, which, to 

 the Whites, is much worse than any except serious 

 injuries. He had rammed himself so far into the 

 root that it was difficult to back out against the lay 

 of his feathers, but at last he managed it and emerged 

 much ruffled. A vigorous shake smoothed him and 

 at the same time reminded him of the tipped wing. 

 His instinct told him not to attempt to use it until 

 it felt different, but the thing of pressing importance 

 was food. In less than half an hour he had swallowed 

 all he could hold, and then came anxiety about the 

 others. From our point of view, it would have 

 been much prettier in him to have forgotten food 

 and gone trotting and piping in quest of his beloved 

 kin, especially the small brown mother; but wild 

 things, if hungry, will not pass food for all the senti- 

 ment ever miswritten. Hence he fed first, and when 

 full, stood and listened. 



There was not a sound. The air was still, and 

 the low sun looked like a crystal globe full of red 

 wine foundering in a sea of silver mist. For once 

 in his life Robert had fed alone and was to sleep 

 alone, and he did not understand why. Mother and 

 the rest were near by and he would call them. 

 " Ka-loi-hee ? Ka-loi-to / Ka-/0z-hee ? " he piped as 

 loudly as he could, then listened expectantly. But 

 there was no response. Again and again and again 

 the sweet question rang louder and louder till 

 whispered echoes drifted from the darkening wood, 

 but the old answers came not in fact, they were 

 lying snug in a new cover what men term " brown 

 duck." 



