WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
wild people. The rotting tree stumps, relics 
of an older generation of trees, were garnished 
with scarlet and yellow agarics, and the briar 
leaves were beginning to change to brown and 
orange. Creaban himself epitomized the colour- 
ing of the wood dull green, glossy black, 
russet and gold. Three months later, when the 
copses were grey and dun, his bright feathers 
might prove his bane ; but now he stepped 
into his rightful place in the scheme of things, 
and in the riot of autumn colours he became 
invisible. The wood-people were taking a 
siesta, and no one saw him as he paced care- 
fully from one bramble thicket to another. 
Half-way down the wood the trees grew more 
sparsely, and between them cart-wheels had 
long ago ploughed deep black ruts, but Creaban 
went on ; for so far he had had no need to 
fear man, nor indeed anything else. But pre- 
sently he heard a quiet footstep behind some 
bushes in front of him. In the woods nothing 
is more to be dreaded than the rustle of an 
unseen tread. The experienced wood-people 
can generally recognize any given sound, 
whether it be the patter of a stoat or only the 
innocuous leaf-turning of a blackbird, and if 
they do not know the source of a suspicious 
noise, they retreat at once ; but Creaban did 
not know this. So far his native wit had had 
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