“I’ll be having a book about all the birds, trees, flowers, butterflies, and——­Yes, by gummy!  I’ll be having one about the frogs—­if it takes every cent I have,” he promised himself.

He put away the account-book, that was his most cherished possession, caught up his stick, and started down the line.  The even tap, tap, and the cheery, gladsome whistle carried far ahead of him the message that Freckles was himself again.

He fell into a rapid pace, for he had lost time that morning; when he rounded the last curve he was almost running.  There was a chance that the Boss might be there for his weekly report.

Then, wavering, flickering, darting here and there over the sweet marsh-grass, came a large black shadow, sweeping so closely before him that for the second time that morning Freckles dodged and sprang back.  He had seen some owls and hawks of the swamp that he thought might be classed as large birds, but never anything like this, for six feet it spread its big, shining wings.  Its strong feet could be seen drawn among its feathers.  The sun glinted on its sharp, hooked beak.  Its eyes glowed, caught the light, and seemed able to pierce the ground at his feet.  It cared no more for Freckles than if he had not been there; for it perched on a low tree, while a second later it awkwardly hopped to the trunk of a lightning-riven elm, turned its back, and began searching the blue.

Freckles looked just in time to see a second shadow sweep the grass; and another bird, a trifle smaller and not quite so brilliant in the light, slowly sailed down to perch beside the first.  Evidently they were mates, for with a queer, rolling hop the first-comer shivered his bronze wings, sidled to the new arrival, and gave her a silly little peck on her wing.  Then he coquettishly drew away and ogled her.  He lifted his head, waddled from her a few steps, awkwardly ambled back, and gave her such a simple sort of kiss on her beak that Freckles burst into a laugh, but clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.

The lover ducked and side-stepped a few feet.  He spread his wings and slowly and softly waved them precisely as if he were fanning his charmer, which was indeed the result he accomplished.  Then a wave of uncontrollable tenderness moved him so he hobbled to his bombardment once more.  He faced her squarely this time, and turned his head from side to side with queer little jerks and indiscriminate peckings at her wings and head, and smirkings that really should have been irresistible.  She yawned and shuffled away indifferently.  Freckles reached up, pulled the quill from his hat, and looking from it to the birds, nodded in settled conviction.

“So you’re me black angels, ye spalpeens!  No wonder you didn’t get in!  But I’ll back you to come closer it than any other birds ever did.  You fly higher than I can see.  Have you picked the Limberlost for a good thing and come to try it?  Well, you can be me chickens if you want to, but I’m blest if you ain’t cool for new ones.  Why don’t you take this stick for a gun and go skinning a mile?”