20 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
his labors, has opened his bill to yawn—or, perchance, 
yonder little bird so industriously scratching among the 
dead leaves of that young holly. Again, precisely the 
same sound is heard; yonder, high in the heavens, is a 
solitary hawk, winging its way over the forests, its rude 
scream etherealized, might come down to our ears, in 
just such a sound as made the turkey-hunter listen; 
—again the same note—now more distinct. The quick 
ear of the hunter is satisfied; stealthily he intrenches 
himself behind a fallen tree, a few green twigs are 
placed before him, from among which protrudes the 
muzzle of his deadly weapon. 
Thus prepared, he takes his “call,” and gives one 
solitary ‘“ cluck’’—so exquisitely—that it chimes in with 
the running brook and the rustling leaf. 
It may be, that a half a mile off, if the place be fa- 
vorable for ‘conveying sound, is feeding a “ gobbler ;” 
prompted by his nature, as he quickly scratches up the 
herbage that conceals his food, he gives utterance to the 
sounds that first attracted the hunter’s attention. 
Poor bird! he is bent on filling his crop; his feel- 
ings are listless, common-place; his wings are awry; 
the plumage on his breast seems soiled with rain; his 
wattles are contracted and pale,—look! he starts— 
every feather is instantly in its place, he raises his de- 
licate game-looking head full four feet from the ground, 
and listens; what an eye! what a stride is suggested by 
that lifted foot! gradually the head sinks; again the 
