The Mourning Dove 373 



head above the nest. With a bat like the thump 

 of a boxing-glove, the wing met his nose, and only 

 the strong hooks on his hind feet prevented his 

 being knocked clean out of the arena. As it was, 

 he hung for an instant head downward and he 

 slid a couple of feet before he could recover 

 himself. 



Talk about language ! The sputtering tirade 

 would have made a common scold envious. He 

 was mad now, clear through, and presently he 

 again stole upward to repeat his attack and to 

 again encounter the clever wing. Another and 

 yet another attempt was bafifled in the same way, 

 and if his piratical nose didn't tingle, his remarks 

 were a poor indication of his feelings. Then he 

 acquired wisdom. A foot above the nest was a 

 small branch from which he could drop fairly 

 upon the dove's back, and this he presently 

 seemed to figure out. His change of attack at 

 once filled the dove with fear, as her demeanor 

 plainly showed. But the thing had gone far 

 enough. 



" None of that — that's foul ! " I remarked. 



Instantly the late bravo flattened with fear, 

 then he made a flying leap to a main limb, and 

 from that to another tree. Not caring to shoot 

 so near the nest, I chased after him, and cer- 

 tainly he showed me what a terrified red squirrel 

 can do. From that tree he hurled himself to a 



