“I’m sure, there’s no inducement for coming,” he added in a lower tone. “It’s the scraggiest part of the whole forest,—only fit for owls to live in!”
“Hoo! hoo!” cried Mother Growler in a rage. “I’m afraid of Coon, am I? A nasty, thieving creature, with an amount of tail that is simply disgusting! And our wood is scraggy, is it? Hoo! Give it to him, children!”
“Peck him!” cried all the owls in chorus; “scratch him! tear him! hustle him!” and, with wings and claws spread, they came flying at Toto.
Toto put one arm before his face, and prepared to defend himself as well as he could with the other. His blood was up, and he had no thought of trying to escape. If he could only get Mother Growler by the head now, and wring her neck!
But blows were falling like hail on his own head now,—sharp blows from horny beaks and crooked talons. They were tearing his jacket off. He was dazed, almost stunned, by the beating of the huge wings in his face. Decidedly, our Toto is in a bad way.
Suddenly a loud crackling noise was heard among the bushes. It came nearer; it grew louder. Toto listened, with his heart in his mouth. Surely, but one animal there was big enough to make a noise like that.
“Bruin!” he cried, with all the breath he could gather, panting and struggling as he was. “Bruin! help! help!”
A portentous growl answered his cry. The boughs crackled and burst right and left, and the next instant the bear sprang through the bushes.
“What is it?” he cried. “Toto, that was your voice. Where are you, boy? What is the matter?”
“Here!” cried Toto faintly. “Here, Bruin! The owls—” But at that moment the little fellow’s voice failed, and he sank bleeding and exhausted on the ground.