WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
startled quack died in his throat, and he fell, 
wheezing, with his crimsoned bill in the water. 
The fox snapped right and left as the rest of 
the duck rose out of his reach. Plover, curlew, 
and snipe joined the mob till the night was 
noisy with the racket of their wings as they 
whirled over the brow of the hill ; and with 
them vanished the woodcock from the grass 
tuft. 
Only Creaman, still crouching under the 
heather, saw the banquet, and how the hunter 
washed his red chops in the pool. There are 
few in the wild who dare to watch the fox 
break up his kill, but the woodcock is one, for 
none fur or feather can hide as closely as 
he. But though Pillibeen the Plover and 
Crutac the cunning Curlew came back to the 
pool before all the luckless mallard's feathers 
had blown away, the grass tuft remained 
empty, and no woodcock came back to fill it. 
Ill 
Creaman lay among the rocks of Scarabeg, and 
more and more of the Feather Folk came in as 
the clouds piled up in the north. At noon it 
began to snow in flakes as big as a man's 
thumb, which clung unmelted where they fell. 
But the warmth of Creaman's feathers thawed 
