“Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird
  Thou art——­”

But Yan snatched it out of his hands.

“I’ll bet the rest was something about ‘Singbird,’” said Sam.

Yan’s face was burning with shame and anger.  He had a poetic streak, and was morbidly sensitive about any one seeing its product.  The Kingbird episode of their long evening walk was but one of many similar.  He had learned to delight in these daring attacks of the intrepid little bird on the Hawks and Crows, and so magnified them into high heroics until he must try to record them in rhyme.  It was very serious to him, and to have his sentiments afford sport to the others was more than he could bear.  Of course Guy came out and grinned, taking his cue from Sam.  Then he remarked in colourless tones, as though announcing an item of general news, “They say there was a fearless-crested Injun shot in the woods to-day.”

The morning’s desertion left Yan in no mood for chaffing.  He rightly attributed the discourtesy to Guy.  Turning savagely toward him he said, meaningly: 

“Now, no more of your sass, you dirty little sneak.”

“I ain’t talkin’ to you,” Guy snickered, and followed Sam into the teepee.  There were low voices within for a time.  Yan went over toward the dam and began to plug mud into some possible holes.  Presently there was more snickering in the teepee, then Guy came out alone, struck a theatrical attitude and began to recite to a tree above Yan’s head: 

    “Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird,
    Thou art but a blooming sing bird—­”

But the mud was very handy and Yan hurled a mass that spattered Guy thoroughly and sent him giggling into the teepee.

“Them’s the bow-kays,” Sam was heard to say.  “Go out an’ git some more; dead sure you deserve ’em.  Let me know when the calls for ‘author’ begin?” Then there was more giggling.  Yan was fast losing all control of himself.  He seized a big stick and strode into the teepee, but Sam lifted the cover of the far side and slipped out.  Guy tried to do the same, but Yan caught him.

“Here, I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

The answer was a sounding whack which made him wriggle.

“You let me alone, you big coward.  I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to you.  You better let me alone.  Sam!  S-A-M!  S-A-A-A-M!!!” as the stick came down again and again.

“Don’t bother me,” shouted Sam outside.  “I’m writin’ poethry—­terrible partic’lar job, poethry.  He only means it in kindness, anyhow.”

Guy was screaming now and weeping copiously.

“You’ll get some more if you give me any more of your lip,” said Yan, and stepped out to meet Sam with the note-book again, apparently scribbling away.  As soon as he saw Yan he stood up, cleared his throat and began: 

    “Kingbird, fearless crested—­”

But he did not finish it.  Yan struck him a savage blow on the mouth.  Sam sprang back a few steps.  Yan seized a large stone.