It was a calm June evening, the time of the second daily outburst of
bird song, the day's aftermath. The singers seemed to be in unusual
numbers as well. Nearly every good perch had some little bird that
seemed near bursting with joy and yet trying to avert that dire
catastrophe.

As the boys went down the road by the outer fence of their own orchard
a Hawk came sailing over, silencing as he came the singing within a
given radius. Many of the singers hid, but a Meadow Lark that had been
whistling on a stake in the open was now vainly seeking shelter in the
broad field. The Hawk was speeding his way. The Lark dodged and put on
all power to reach the orchard, but the Hawk was after him now--was
gaining--in another moment would, have clutched the terrified
musician, but out of the Apple trees there dashed a small
black-and-white bird--the Kingbird. With a loud harsh twitter--his
war-cry--repeated again and again, with his little gray head-feathers
raised to show the blood-and-flame-coloured undercrest--his war
colours--he darted straight at the great robber.

"Clicker-a-clicker," he fairly screamed, and made for the huge Hawk,
ten times his size.

"Clicker-a-clicker!" he shrieked, like a cateran shouting the
"slogan," and down like a black-and-white dart--to strike the Hawk
fairly between the shoulders just as the Meadow Lark dropped in
despair to the bare ground and hid its head from the approaching
stroke of death.

"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the Hawk wheeled in sudden consternation.
"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the dauntless little warrior dropped between