14 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



it liad a growth as large as a good-sized butter 

 bowl on the top side which was in the proper posi- 

 tion to make a first step in the ascent of the tree. 

 We used to start a few rods away on the run, take 

 this first step, which brought us in reach of the 

 nearest branch, and from there we went up the 

 tree almost as swiftly as we ran along the path. 

 I can not recall one spring of my childhood in 

 which the robins did not have at least one nest in 

 this tree. 



Coming from it early one summer morning I 

 heard the crack of my father's rifle in the dooryard, 

 then I saw a big bird whirling to earth in the milk 

 yard, which adjoined the garden on one side, 

 the orchard on the other. I saw my father start 

 toward the bird, so as fast as possible I sped after 

 him, my bare feet making no sound on the hard, 

 worn path. A large chicken hawk was sitting 

 back on his tail, one wing stifily extended, the 

 tip hanging broken and bleeding, while in the 

 bird's eyes there was a look of commingled pain, 

 fear, and regal defiance that drove me out of my 

 senses. My father grasped his rifle by the barrel. 

 As the butt came whirling around, I sprang before 

 him and sheltered the hawk with my body, the 

 gun whizzing past my head so close that the rush 

 of air fanned my face. My father dragged me 

 away. 



"Are you mad.^" he cried. ]^"I barely missed 

 braining you!" 



