Presently all Timbertangle lay beneath them, a great mass of tangled, brown tree tops, with here and there a bald knob of mountain rising above them. Even these soon flattened out into a mottled plain stretching far, far away in every direction—a plain that grew hazier and less distinct every moment, as they were flying very swiftly and almost directly up—and soon Timbertangle was altogether lost to sight as light, wind-blown clouds drifted between them and the earth beneath.
The eagle flew very easily, with no apparent effort, and his great wings rose and fell with a motion as regular as the beating of a heart.
Long before this, Kaw, feeling that he could not keep up with the strong flight of the eagle, had lighted on the broad back beside Cho-gay, and his bright eyes turned in every direction, taking in the surroundings.
The cool wind whistled by their ears, but Cho-gay’s skin was tough from constant exposure to all kinds of weather, and the wind made little difference to him.
Kaw was enjoying himself thoroughly. “I only wish there was a pool somewhere near,” he said in an undertone to Cho-gay, “so that I could see how I look. How about this color—will it come off easily?”
Cho-gay stared hard as the realization came to him that from previous experiments he had found that this particular color did not come off easily. He whispered this to the crow.
“Well,” said Kaw, when this had been made clear to him, “that’s nice—a pretty pickle, I call it. I must say I can’t blame you though. There is some gain in everything, and no matter how old I get to be, I will never turn gray!” He chuckled suddenly:
“Who ever heard of a crow that was red?
Oh, bless my poor feathers and bones!
My friends will all think that old Kaw is dead,