“Hoot, lad!” cried Duncan.
“Make yours light on your head and eat out of your hands and pockets,” challenged Freckles.
“Go and tell your fairy tales to the wee people! They're juist brash on believin' things,” said Duncan. “Ye canna invent any story too big to stop them from callin' for a bigger.”
“I dare you to come see!” retorted Freckles.
“Take ye!” said Duncan. “If ye make juist ane bird licht on your heid or eat frae your hand, ye are free to help yoursel' to my corn-crib and wheat bin the rest of the winter.”
Freckles sprang in air and howled in glee.
“Oh, Duncan! You're too, aisy” he cried. “When will you come?”
“I'll come next Sabbath,” said Duncan. “And I'll believe the birds of the Limberlost are tame as barnyard fowl when I see it, and no sooner!”
After that Freckles always spoke of the birds as his chickens, and the Duncans followed his example. The very next Sabbath, Duncan, with his wife and children, followed Freckles to the swamp. They saw a sight so wonderful it will keep them talking all the remainder of their lives, and make them unfailing friends of all the birds.
Freckles' chickens were awaiting him at the edge of the clearing. They cut the frosty air around his head into curves and circles of crimson, blue, and black. They chased each other from Freckles, and swept so closely themselves that they brushed him with their outspread wings.