WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
Bally money Glen. It was not far from the 
scene of his accident, but to reach it he had 
run the gauntlet of many perils the open field, 
the brook, and the gorse covert. It was a sweet 
February afternoon, whose sunshine looked, even 
if it did not feel, warm. The arum leaves had 
burrowed upwards into the light, and the suc- 
culent tufts of the ransoms were green in the 
shady places. The throstles, whose throats had 
been choked by the hunger pain of the cold 
snap, sang again, and the misselthrushes were 
quarrelsome and noisy. It was Spring. Shacaim 
twittered and shuffled his maimed wing. With 
the marvellous power of the Wild Folk, he had 
already adapted his way of life to his altered cir- 
cumstances, and his wound was on a fair way to 
be healed, as, indeed, such a clean cut was bound 
to do. His plumage was preened as sleekly as 
usual not a feather lay awry on his spotted 
waistcoat. Of course he was not accustomed 
to run like a pheasant or water-hen, and at the 
first, the strain upon his legs troubled him, for 
whenever they grew weary, by force of habit 
he launched himself into the air and tumbled 
headlong to earth again. Once or twice this 
mistake almost cost him dear, for it drew upon 
him the attention of enemies who would other- 
wise have passed him by. It was thus that the 
yellow hen found him, and she clucked up her 
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