Meanwhile, the alarmed professor could do nothing for his young friend.  The eagles kept so close to him, that, if he tried, he was as likely to hit one as the other.  He walked back and forth, on the alert for such a chance, and fortunately had not long to wait.  One of the furious birds, circled off a few feet, as if to gather impetus for a decisive charge, when, taking a quick aim, the gentleman fired.

The shot was unerring and killed the female.  She fluttered into a large sapling that sprouted from a large crevice in the rocks, about eight feet above the boy’s head, and lay motionless.  Although nearly blinded by blood, young Hemingway now attempted a feat which he was convinced offered the only means of saving his life.

He drew himself up to the foot of the tree, and once there, braced himself firmly with his feet, and tied his handkerchief around his forehead, to keep the blood out of his eyes.  Seizing the dead bird by the feet, he swung it around with might and main and struck the male, which had continued beating him incessantly.

It was a strange weapon—­a dead eagle against a live one, and the boy’s constrained position prevented his using it with much effect.  So lacking, indeed, were the blows in force, that the male flew directly at his face.  The sorely beset lad dropped the dead bird and fastened both hands around the throat of his assailant.  The latter fought desperately, but the young hero never released his grip, until it ceased its struggles.  Then he flung it from him, and it tumbled downward to the professor’s feet.

This gentleman had done his best to help his young friend, but was unable to do so.  The lad, after resting awhile, picked his way down to the ground, where his feet had hardly touched when he fainted in the professor’s arms.  He soon rallied, however, though his wounds were so severe that he was obliged to keep his bed for several weeks.

The two eaglets were found uninjured, and were safely carried to the professor’s home, as were the bodies of the dead birds.  They were mounted by Professor McInery, who, in consideration of the danger undergone by the boy, and the two extra birds, presented Lee with $100, and no one will deny that the money was well earned.

WHO SHALL EXPLAIN IT?

Let me begin by saying that I was never a believer in signs, omens, or the general superstitions which, it must be admitted, influence most people to a greater or less degree.  I have been the thirteenth guest at more than one table, without my appetite being affected; I have tipped over my salt-cellar without a twinge of fear; I have never turned aside to avoid passing under a leaning ladder, and I do not care a jot whether the first glimpse of the new moon is over my right or left shoulder.

I had a little boy Bob, who was fourteen years old on the last anniversary of American independence.  Being our only son, his mother and myself held him close to our hearts.  In fact, I am sure no little fellow was ever regarded with more affectionate love than our Bob.  The painful story which, with much hesitation, I have set out to tell is one, therefore, that no member of our little family can ever forget.