“Creek—creek; creek—creek,” for about a dozen times, when there was a pause. Then again, the peculiarly harsh creaking cry was heard.
“There’s an old meadow-crake,” said Harry, who was holding the kite: “let’s go and hunt him up; perhaps we could catch it.”
“But who’s to hold the kite?” said Philip.
“Put the stick in the ground, and leave it,” said Harry, at once setting to work to put his project into execution, by thrusting one end of the stick to which the string was tied deeply into a crack in the ground.
“That won’t be safe,” said Fred, trying the stick.
“Oh yes, it will,” said Harry, giving it a stamp on the top with his foot; “come along.”
“Creek—creek,” sang the landrail or meadow-crake, apparently a quarter of a mile off.
“Come on, boys,” said Harry again, running off with a half limp, closely followed by Philip and Fred.
“Creek—creek,” said the landrail, far enough down, away from where it had been heard at first.
“There’s an old stupid,” said Philip; “why, where are you?” he continued.