But the old King of the swamp had met his match at last, for the mother eagle well knew that she was fighting to the death the one who had robbed her nest before. In vain did the King seek to gain his home nest in the blasted pine. The eagle stuck to him, tearing at him cruelly with beak and talons until, finally, fluttering weakly, utterly exhausted, his spirit broken, blind and dying, the King began to fall. Fluttering weakly he began to settle down, down into a dark, hidden spot beneath the thick balsams. He had become just a mere bundle of snowy feathers now; all fierceness had departed, and there was nothing left of the King for the little wild things of the forest to longer fear and hate.
And that night when the frogs started off with their usual signal, calling all to awaken in the marshes, the “Who, ho, ho-ho, ho-ho, o-o” of the old King of the swamp was silent.
