Black’s whiskers quiver; he growls with suppressed savagery and passion.... How he would like to catch that crow; torture it, eat it—eat it very slowly!...
Now he slips into hiding in a burdock clump and waits patiently for the squalling devil’s curiosity to subside.
A blackbird whistles from a willow and a magpie warbles from the copse; he follows carefully by means of sounds what is happening ... and when all is quiet again, he sneaks on once more—with his faithful follower at his tail-end.
A strong, earthy smell mingled with the scent of flowers fills the tunnels. The two cats have constant difficulty in breathing, and again make towards the outskirts of the copse.
“Madness” is already making for the boundary-hedge when he suddenly sees a young crow, with something heavy in its beak, flap into the top of an elder tree. His glance grows as black as a thunder-cloud—and without a second’s hesitation he leaps back from the hawthorn and gallops to the tree.
“Terror” patters in his wake ... until he reaches the root of the elder, where he sits up on his hind legs and watches the ascent.
Black climbs rapidly with short, agile springs. When he is half-way up the young crow flies away to another treetop....
Black tries to follow by means of the lateral branches, but finding none of these strong enough to bear, he is compelled to descend to the bottom and begin all over again at the next tree.
The pursuit is carried on noiselessly. The bird has no suspicion that it is being pursued; otherwise its wild war-cry would begin instantly.
The elders are half grown and rather difficult to climb. Nevertheless, the cat’s zeal is unabated; although he has soon cantered up and down three of them—but then, trees are for him nothing more formidable than extra steep hills.