My dog was trotting before us, with her nose to the ground, when suddenly she made a run through the short heather after a lapwing, which was, or pretended to be, unable to fly. I think it was trying to decoy the dog away from its nest. As we watched the chase, Tom cried out:
"Look, look, there's a hawk after them!"
And, indeed, so it was. The lapwing ran with wondrous speed, and before Selta had time to snap at it a hawk had nipped in before the dog's nose in the attempt to rob her of her prey. Unfortunately for the larger bird, however, the dog's snap, intended for the fugitive, came upon the hawk's outstretched neck. The lapwing escaped unhurt, and flew screaming into the air, but Selta held to the hawk till we ran up and helped her. I managed to secure the bird's wings, which flapped about with surprising strength, while Tom held its struggling legs.
"Thraw its neck, thraw its neck!" cried Rosson, now coming up to us.
Selta loosened her hold, and Willie Hercus took the hawk's head in his hand, carefully guarding against its sharp beak, gave its neck a rapid twist, and the bird was dead.
"What kind of a bird is it?" eagerly asked Kinlay, whose knowledge of our native birds was as imperfect as his knowledge of Latin conjugations.
"Can you not see it's a harrier--a hen harrier?" I said, as I stretched out the large and beautiful wings of gray-blue feathers and proceeded to bind the bird's feet with a string.
"The very same that Thora spoke of, I'll be bound!" Tom exclaimed with satisfaction, as he evidently thought of his sister's secret of the nest on the Black Craigs.
"What'll we do with it?" asked Hercus. "Is it good for eating?"
"Nonsense, Willie!" said I. "Surely we've birds in plenty without eating hawks! Let's give it to the dominie."