“Oh yes, sir; they’ll all be by soon,” replied Johannes; and almost as he spoke the whirring sound grew fainter, fainter, and then died away.
“Hah!” ejaculated Steve, drawing a long breath. “How strange it sounded!”
He was about to say, “I am glad you were here, for it quite startled me,” when the Norseman spoke:
“I remember hearing one of these night flights, sir when I was quite a lad somewhere about your age. I was out quite alone, and it frightened me so that I ran away. It was one night, and I was going straight home over the mountain when it began. First thing I did was to throw myself flat on my face; but the noise seemed to come close down to me, and I was so scared that I jumped up and began to run. But that did no good, for I started running in the same direction as the wild fowl were flying, and consequently the noise sounded as if following me, and kept on louder and louder till I reached home, dashed myself, out of breath, against the door, and rushed in to where my father and mother were sitting with the window open listening, as I thought, for me. In a moment I’d banged to and barred the door, and then I turned to my father.
“‘Shut the window,’ I said. ‘Quick! they’re coming in.’
“‘What are?’ said my father.
“‘I don’t know. I think it’s a pack of wolves,’ I panted as I sank in a chair. ‘Get the gun.’
“‘Oh yes,’ said my father. ‘Perhaps it is flying wolves with feathers instead of fur coats, and they were after you to eat you.’
“‘Yes, father,’ I said, ‘I thought so.’
“‘Then don’t be such a bull goose again,’ said my father. ‘Here, mother, try and teach this boy to think better, and not go and believe that every sound he hears is all troll and hobgoblin. Feathered wolves that fly, eh, Johannes? That kind of fowl has not been hatched yet, my boy. Now, the next time you hear a flight of fowl going south in the night, you’ll know better, won’t you?’