Then Mr. Nighthawk left his perch and climbed up into the sky. And when he had risen high enough to suit him he dropped like a stone. It seemed to Chirpy Cricket that he had never heard anything so loud as the boom that broke not far above his head soon afterward. At the very moment when it looked as if Mr. Nighthawk must dash himself to pieces upon the ground, right where Chirpy Cricket crouched and trembled, he had spread his wings and checked his fall. It was the air, rushing through his wing-feathers with great force, that made the queer, hollow sound. That was why Mr. Nighthawk claimed that he made the booming on a wind instrument.
“There!” he said, when he had settled himself in the tree once more. “If you think you can teach me to perform better, just try that trick yourself!”
But Chirpy Cricket said that he was sure Mr. Nighthawk’s performance couldn’t be bettered by anybody. And he remarked that the noise reminded him of a high wind coming on top of a thunder storm.
That pleased Mr. Nighthawk.
“It’s the greatest praise I’ve ever had!” he declared. And before Chirpy Cricket knew what had happened, Mr. Nighthawk had flown away.
Chirpy often wondered why he left so suddenly. The truth was that Mr. Nighthawk had hurried back to the woods to tell his wife what Chirpy Cricket had said to him. And ever afterward he was fond of repeating Chirpy’s remark, in a boasting way, until his neighbors were heartily tired of hearing it.