sharply, when a cry of wonder came from the Indian. "O bah cosh,
see! das second time I catchum, Koskomenos." And there, twenty
feet above the lake, a young kingfisher--one of Koskomenos'
frowzy-headed, wild-eyed-youngsters--was whirling wildly at the
end of my line. He had seen the minnow trailing a hundred feet
astern and, with more hunger than discretion, had swooped for it
promptly. Simmo, feeling the tug but seeing nothing behind him,
had struck promptly, and the hook went home.

I seized the line and began to pull in gently. The young
kingfisher came most unwillingly, with a continuous clatter of
protest that speedily brought Koskomenos and his mate, and two or
three of the captive's brethren, in a wild, clamoring about the
canoe. They showed no lack of courage, but swooped again and
again at the line, and even at the man who held it. In a moment I
had the youngster in my hand, and had disengaged the hook. He was
not hurt at all, but terribly frightened; so I held him a little
while, enjoying the excitement of the others, whom the captive's
alarm rattle kept circling wildly about the canoe. It was
noteworthy that not another bird heeded the cry or came near.
Even in distress they refused to recognize the outcast. Then, as
Koskomenos hovered on quivering wings just over my head, I tossed
the captive close up beside him. "There, Koskomenos, take your
young chuckle-head, and teach him better wisdom. Next time you
see me stalking a bear, please go on with your fishing."

But there was no note of gratitude in the noisy babel that swept
up the bay after the kingfishers. When I saw them again, they
were sitting on a dead branch, five of them in a row, chuckling
and clattering all at once, unmindful of the minnows that played