They seemed to feel the new reign of peace and fullness most of all.  As for food, they did not even have to hunt for themselves these days, for the feasts now being spread before Little Chicken were more than he could use, and he was glad to have his parents come down and help him.

He was a fine, big, overgrown fellow, and his wings, with quills of jetty black, gleaming with bronze, were so strong they almost lifted his body.  He had three inches of tail, and his beak and claws were sharp.  His muscles began to clamor for exercise.  He raced the forty feet of his home back and forth many times every hour of the day.  After a few days of that, he began lifting and spreading his wings, and flopping them until the down on his back was filled with elm fiber.  Then he commenced jumping.  The funny little hops, springs, and sidewise bounds he gave set Freckles and the Angel, hidden in the swamp, watching him, into smothered chuckles of delight.

Sometimes he fell to coquetting with himself; and that was the funniest thing of all, for he turned his head up, down, from side to side, and drew in his chin with prinky little jerks and tilts.  He would stretch his neck, throw up his head, turn it to one side and smirk—­actually smirk, the most complacent and self-satisfied smirk that anyone ever saw on the face of a bird.  It was so comical that Freckles and the Angel told the Bird Woman of it one day.

When she finished her work on Little Chicken, she left them the camera ready for use, telling them they might hide in the bushes and watch.  If Little Chicken came out and truly smirked, and they could squeeze the bulb at the proper moment to snap him, she would be more than delighted.

Freckles and the Angel quietly curled beside a big log, and with eager eyes and softest breathing they patiently waited; but Little Chicken had feasted before they told of his latest accomplishment.  He was tired and sleepy, so he went into the log to bed, and for an hour he never stirred.

They were becoming anxious, for the light soon would be gone, and they had so wanted to try for the picture.  At last Little Chicken lifted his head, opened his beak, and gaped widely.  He dozed a minute or two more.  The Angel said that was his beauty sleep.  Then he lazily gaped again and stood up, stretching and yawning.  He ambled leisurely toward the gateway, and the Angel said:  “Now, we may have a chance, at last.”

“I do hope so,” shivered Freckles.

With one accord they arose to their knees and trained their eyes on the mouth of the log.  The light was full and strong.  Little Chicken prospected again with no results.  He dressed his plumage, polished his beak, and when he felt fine and in full toilet he began to flirt with himself.  Freckles’ eyes snapped and his breath sucked between his clenched teeth.

“He’s going to do it!” whispered the Angel.  “That will come next.  You’ll best give me that bulb!”