“Clicker-a-clicker,” and he struck as before.  Large brown feathers were floating away on the breeze now.  The Meadow Lark was forgotten.  The Hawk thought only of escape.

“Clicker-a-clicker,” the slogan still was heard.  The Hawk was putting on all speed to get away, but the Kingbird was riding him most of the time.  Several brown feathers floated down, the Hawk dwindled in the distance to a Sparrow and the Kingbird to a fly dancing on his back.  The Hawk made a final plunge into a thicket, and the king came home again, uttering the shrill war-cry once or twice, probably to let the queen know that he was coming back, for she flew to a high branch of the Apple tree where she could greet the returning hero.  He came with an occasional “clicker-a-clicker”—­then, when near her, he sprung fifty feet in the air and dashed down, screaming his slogan without interruption, darting zigzag with the most surprising evolutions and turns—­this way, that way, sideways and downward, dealing the deadliest blows right and left at an imaginary foe, then soared, and did it all over again two or three times, just to show how far he was from being tired, and how much better he could have done it had it been necessary.  Then with a final swoop and a volley of “clickers” he dashed into the bush to receive the congratulations of the one for whom it all was meant and the only spectator for whose opinion he cared in the least.

[Illustration:  “Clicker-a-clicker!’ he shrieked ... and down like a dart.”]

“Now, ain’t that great,” said Sam, with evident sincerity and pleasure.  His voice startled Yan and brought him back.  He had been wholly lost in silent admiring wonder of the dauntless little Kingbird.

A Vesper Sparrow ran along the road before them, flitting a few feet ahead each time they overtook it and showing the white outer tail-feathers as it flew.

“A little Graybird,” remarked Sam.

“No, that isn’t a Graybird; that’s a Vesper Sparrow,” exclaimed Yan, in surprise, for he knew he was right.

“Well, I dunno,” said Sam, yielding the point.

“I thought you said you knew every bird that flies and all about it” replied his companion, for the memory of this first day was strong with him yet.

Sam snorted:  “I didn’t know you then.  I was just loadin’ you up so you’d think I was a wonderful feller, an’ you did, too—­for awhile.”

A Red-headed Woodpecker, carrying a yellow butterfly, flew on a fence stake ahead of them and peeped around as they drew near.  The setting sun on his bright plumage, the lilac stake and the yellow butterfly, completed a most gorgeous bit of colour and gave Yan a thrill of joy.  A Meadow Lark on a farther stake, a Bluebird on another, and a Vesper Bird on a stone, each added his appeal to eye and ear, till Sam exclaimed: 

“Oh, ain’t that awful nice?” and Yan was dumb with a sort of saddened joy.

Birds hate the wind, and this was one of those birdy days that come only with a dead calm.