So Chaik hopped and sidled out to the tip of a bough where Louie could see him.
The little boy couldn’t have helped finding him, for there sat Tad Coon right beneath him, with his sniffy black nose turned up, pointing straight at him. And Chaik Jay was fluttering in a scared way.
“You rascally old thing!� scolded Louie. Of course he thought Tad was the one the pretty blue bird was afraid of; he never dreamed any one would be afraid of him any more, because he never dreamed of hurting his wild friends. “Is that the kind of a beast you are? You’re all right while you know you can’t catch him, but the minute he can’t fly you want to eat him. Well, I won’t let you. If you’re so hungry you can’t wait till supper time you can go catch yourself a frog!�
A lot Tad cared! He knew Louie wouldn’t hurt him, and he didn’t know what the scolding was about—he guessed maybe Louie thought someone had hurt Chaik’s wing on purpose. He just winked the tips of his ears to cheer up the bird when the little boy reached out his hand to take him.
It was a very gentle hand.
It tried very softly to untangle Chaik’s feet from the branch. Before either of them knew just exactly how it happened Chaik found himself holding on very tight to Louie’s soft, warm finger instead of the rough wood, balancing himself with his well wing. And suddenly he found he wasn’t scared any more. He felt perfectly safe and happy. And you know how Louie Thomson would feel! He was so pleased and proud he just couldn’t get home fast enough to show his mother.
Do you know how happy Chaik Jay felt when he went riding up the lane perched on Louie’s finger? He felt so happy he got actually impudent. He looked up at the marsh hawk, still skimming over Doctor Muskrat’s Pond wondering who had called him, and gave the hawk’s hunting call again. That brought the hawk circling right over them. The hawk came so near Louie could see the black tips to his blue-gray wings, like a seagull’s, and the wide black bar on the end of his tail, and his feathery whiskers—even the surprised look in his eyes, as bright and coppery as a new penny.
“Well, I’m ruffled!� he exclaimed, quite indignantly. “Were you the one giving my call?�
“Surely,� said that very impudent jay, bobbing his head and flicking his own striped tail. “I thought you might want to know there’s not a claw stirring in all these Woods and Fields except yours and Killer the Weasel’s and those of the Bad Little Owls.�
“Ha-a-ah!â€� The hawk made a cup of his tail and wings and hung above them for a moment while he thought this over. “Thanks,â€� he said, and his voice wasn’t nearly as harsh. “I’m glad to know it. If that’s what’s going on, the pond is no place for me!â€� He’s not a very big hawk, you know—not nearly as big as the fine red lady hawk who came to help Stripes Skunk kill the crook-tailed snake which stole eggs from the meadowlarks. He had good reason to be afraid of Killer. So round he turned and Louie saw the queer white patch on his back that you only notice from behind go jogging off toward his mate on the far-off side of the Deep Woods.