THE BLACK VULTURE 



with common sense. To cut down a tree with her watching us, 

 in all probability meant to frighten her into creeping to the far- 

 thermost recesses of the log, where she might refuse to come out 

 for hours. Then for the Deacon to go in and get the baby while 

 she was there would mean to give her a fright from which she 

 never would recover, and might result in her deserting the nest. 

 She must be coaxed out, before any clearing to throw light on 

 the opening was done. My eyes were fast on the log, my shak- 

 ing fingers grasping the bulb. I had figured on her walking to 

 the opening and flying from there. She came out on wing and 

 with a rush. My shutter was set too slow for flight. There was 

 only an indistinct swipe on my plate. 



Then the Deacon entered the log, crept its length and car- 

 ried out the baby and the egg in his hat, which we previously had 

 lined with leaves. The odor was so unbearable we could work 

 about the log only by dipping our handkerchiefs in disinfectant 

 and binding them over our mouths and nostrils. The Deacon 

 said there was not a trace of nest. The baby and the egg were in 

 a little hollow in the decayed, yellow elm fiber. 



The baby was cunning as possible, white and soft as a powder- 

 puff. He had a little, quaint, leathery, black old face and the 

 unhatched egg was a beauty, but far too light weight to contain 

 a young bird ready to pip the shell. We at once named the baby 

 Little Chicken after Pharaoh's Chickens of old. The Deacon 

 placed him in the mouth of the log, exactly as he found him, while 

 I cut away vines and fought out a footing. Then we cut down 

 several trees and bushes to get a good light on the mouth of the 

 log. A study was made of the location, two of Little Chicken 

 and the egg, and one of the baby alone. 



Then the Deacon crept back into the log and replaced the 



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