“Hush,” he says, and pointed up. There, over the trees, came two more cranes with great wings extended, just sort of floating toward us, and they settled in the water, too.
“Must be a fine place to f-f-fish,” says Mark, and at that what should happen but two more cranes who picked out spots in the line.
Before we had done being surprised another came rushing down—he was in a hurry, I guess; and then another, who lit at the far end of the line. It was a pretty sight, I tell you. Eleven big cranes, most as tall as I am, all standing as pompous and stiff and motionless as could be, just as if they were on parade.
“I wouldn’t have m-missed it for a quarter,” says Mark, and I felt that way too.
We forgot about breakfast, it was so interesting to watch them. Every now and then one of them would dart his head down quick as lightning, there would be a splash in the water, and sometimes you could see the big bird gulping down a little fish. This kept up for maybe twenty minutes.
“L-l-look at the last one,” says Mark, all of a sudden.
The bird at the far end of the line didn’t act satisfied with things—he sort of fidgeted. Then all at once he spread his wings and began slowly flapping them till their tips touched the river. Up he rose, acting for all the world like a startled girl. The next crane caught the scare, and up he went.
“Whew!” Mark whistled. “Somebody comin’. Haul the boat out of sight. Quick!”
We jumped for the canoe and dragged it into the underbrush and lay down on our stomachs beside it.
“Hostile Indians,” says Mark.