And then, for the first time in its yet
unwritten story, the Thunder Bird had its
nose put out of joint by a modest little
earth-bird--a hermit, too, as it would
be among the starry spaces--by a little,
brown-backed evening thrush singing its
good-night song in a thicket of scrub
near by.

/*
"O wheel-y-will-y-will-y-&il-l^!"
*/

It caroled, as a naturalist has translated
the wonderful, silver-sweet prelude of the
master-singer of the woods, the nightingale
of America, rising, trilling until--now--with
the voice-throwing magic of the ventriloquist,
its song seemed to come from
quite another corner of the thicket, while
girls' hearts melted in their breasts, as,
climbing a maypole of ecstasy, the notes
trembled--fluted--upon a gossamer pinnacle
of gladness at the close of a perfect
day.

"Oh-h!"

There was no breath in girlish bodies for
[[107]]

p106 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p107w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p108

v?