THE BIRD WORLD. 
Spearbill 
the Heron. 
( 98 ) 
The Haunt of the Heron. 
A Terrifying Adventure. 
One day, after flying- far from his old home, 
Spearbill was quietly fishing in the dusk of even¬ 
ing and forgetting how time flew, and when he 
called out his long “ craigh craigh ” there was no 
reply; his parents had missed him as he fished 
and had flown away, and he had now grown into 
a fine bird for a first season youngster, and did 
not mind being alone, so he quickly sailed away 
until he found a isafe tree where he roosted for 
the short summer night. He began to love his 
solitary life, and when he met other Herons he 
did not stay with them for long', but spent his 
time in fishing and searching for prey. 
One afternoon he was flying along steadily up 
the main stream of the river, his great arched 
wings flapping with measured beats, his long 
legs stretched out behind, with his crop full of 
fish he had just caught, and expecting to spend 
some hours resting upon the top of an old 
withered oak where he could overlook the 
country far enough to see any approaching 
enemy. It was his favourite standing place, and 
he was full and happy, and had no thought of 
danger, when, as he passed a clump of trees he 
saw some men, who waved their arms, and 
almost before Spearbill knew what was afoot two 
large Falcons were racing after him. He had 
seen Hawks before, but only small ones; his in¬ 
stinct, however, told him that now he was in 
grave danger and he must keep above them if he 
could. 
Almost without thought he threw out his fish, 
and they dropped to the ground, looking like bars 
of falling silver in the autumn sun; bracing him¬ 
self together he began to rise up in mighty rings; 
he had the advantage of the Falcons, as they had 
not only to get up to him, but had to rise above 
him before they could fairly stride. He is really 
flying now, flying for his life, he thinks, and the 
slow and measured beat which he usually uses 
in his steady flight is now all changed, and his 
fine arched wings beat the air quickly and hard, 
and up he goes, “ ringing round ” at a great 
pace. 
The Falcons are old birds and strong and well; 
they know their work, and hard as Spearbill flies 
they can fly faster, and they, too, ring round and 
upwards until at last one gets well above the 
Heron, and closing its wings, stoops slanting 
down with immense speed; but Spearbill sees, 
and just manages to swerve, and down the noble 
Falcon goes beneath, only to rise almost as 
quickly with a splendid curve, and start again to 
ring round to get above. 
