WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
bleeding wattle, and springing up, struck. His 
spur smote the Cock squarely a clean cut 
below the ear. The Cock gurgled : then his 
blood-choked bill sank forward, and his wings 
shivered and drooped flaccidly in the death 
sickness. The battle was over. 
Creaban stood on the stump, and whirring his 
stiff wings, crowed hoarsely. Wild had met 
tame, and for once in the history of the wood, 
the wild had won. The " Chickery-Cock " lay 
still and a purple stain widened and spread on 
the moss under his bill. One by one the hens 
went to peer at him with vacuous curiosity. 
Only the Yellow Pullet did not go with the 
rest to gaze at their fallen lord, but watched 
how Creaban, drooping with weariness, slowly 
left the clearing. 
But now a golden streak behind the trees told 
of sunset, and in the shadow of the bushes the 
light was already beginning to fail. A bat 
flitted overhead, and at the sight the hens grew 
uneasy. Ages ago the very existence of their 
race had depended upon the promptness with 
which they went to roost before snakes and 
cats and other night-prowlers were abroad, and 
the impulse still dwelt with them. But as a rule 
the " Chickery-Cock " himself led them back to 
Tonsella. To-night they were widowed. They 
talked over the dilemma noisily and strolled 
200 
