THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



here was a swish of wings, a flash 

 of gray, a cry of pain, a squawking, 

 cowering, scattering flock of hens, 

 a weakly fluttering pullet, and yon- 

 der, swinging upward into the Oc- 

 tober sky, a marsh hawk, buoyant and gleaming 

 silvery in the sun. Over the trees he beat, circled 

 once, and disappeared. 



The hens were still flapping for safety in a 

 dozen directions, but the gray harrier had gone. 

 A bolt of lightning could not have dropped so 

 unannounced, could not have vanished so com- 

 pletely, could scarcely have killed so quickly. I 

 ran to the pullet, but found her dead. The har- 

 rier's stroke, delivered with fearful velocity, had 

 laid head and neck open as with a keen knife. 

 Yet a fraction slower and he would have missed, 

 for the pullet caught the other claw on her wing. 

 The gripping talons slipped off the long quills, 

 and the hawk swept on without his quarry. He 

 dared not come back for it at my feet; and 



