Cloud Wings the Eagle. 95 



Again he would come in the early morning, sweeping 

 up river as if he had already been a long day's journey, 

 with the air of far-away and far-to-go in his onward 

 rush. And if I were at the trout pools, and very still, 

 I would hear the strong silken rustle of his wings as 

 he passed. At midday I would see him poised over 

 the highest mountain-top northward, at an enormous 

 altitude, where the imagination itself could not follow 

 the splendid sweep of his vision; and at evening he 

 would cross the lake, moving westward into the sunset 

 on tireless pinions — always strong, noble, magnificent 

 in his power and loneliness, a perfect emblem of the 

 great lonely magnificent wilderness. 



One day as I watched him, it swept over me sud- 

 denly that forest and river would be incomplete with- 

 out him. The thought of this came back to me, and 

 spared him to the wilderness, , on the last occasion 

 when I went hunting for his life. 



That was just after we reached the big lake, where 

 I saw him robbing the fish-hawk. After much search- 

 ing and watching I found a great log by the outlet 

 where Old Whitehead often perched. There was a 

 big eddy hard by, on the edge of a shallow, and he used 

 to sit on the log, waiting for fish to come out where 

 he could wade in and get them. There was a sick- 

 ness among the suckers that year (it comes regularly 



