78 THE KEEPER'S VISION. 
birds were cock-birds, there because they had 
nothing special to do except make pretty 
music and strut about, incidentally guarding 
their respective hidden mates, ‘sitting’ on 
their secret nests of treasured eggs. 
Suddenly down went the pigeon’s head, so 
that you could see only one eye peering over 
one shoulder. In that position, with his sole 
conspicuous spot—the white ring—hidden, he 
was practically invisible. Down also went the 
pheasant’s head, dark head-feathers covering 
white neck plumage. The woodcock flopped 
in his tracks, and became a bunch of leaves. 
Robin and nightingale seemed transformed 
into birds carven from wood. 
And the next moment—well, and the next 
moment they were gone. It was as if a 
magician’s cloth had covered them for a 
second and enchanted them away. They 
were, and they were not. Only a whisper 
spoke of their going. 
A blot, a speck, a blur, as it were, was 
moving in the extreme right corner of the 
motionless keeper’s right eye. The keeper did 
not move at all; only strained his eyes round, 
and tried to think what creature this might be 
who miraculously drifted towards him like 
smoke, making no sound on dead leaves. 
His motionlessness deceived the intruder. 
