In the fourth elder he gives up, and hangs panting, with claws anchored in the stem—while brother Tiny waits below, wildly excited as to the result of the expedition.
Very often whilst waiting in this same manner “Terror” has received his—in his opinion—well-earned reward in the shape of a dropped egg; or a wretched fledgling bird, which, horrified by the sight of the two evil, greedy eyes rising over the side of the nest, has flapped vainly into space on its half-formed wings, leaving Black to devour its helpless brothers and sisters. All such windfalls Tiny takes as thank-offerings from his big brother and promptly puts them out of sight....
Was dear old “Madness” about to make another haul? The poltroon knows well that in any case there is nothing to do but sit and wait!
Whilst doing so, he dares not for his life make a sound—not the least hint of a “miauw!” Once, long ago, he did so—the next moment “Madness” left his ambush and fell on him tooth and nail. Tiny supposed at first that he was being attacked in mistake for the quarry. Would he be eaten? But no, he should only keep his mouth shut!
After a long “breather,” the climber unclamps himself and resumes his progress through the treetops. He comes soon to a place where the trees stand extra close together, so that Tiny constantly receives twigs and bits of bark in his face. Under this treatment the little rogue’s keenness gradually diminishes—nothing good to eat comes down!
By chance Black stumbles on the tree where the crow’s nest is situated. Walking along a cross branch he lowers himself into it. It is beautifully soft and comfortable—but, alas! long since empty. A good idea strikes him ... the sunshine is so gloriously warm up here ... why not take his midday nap in the nest!
He lies down and, shutting his eyes, falls into a half-doze, without taking the slightest regard for Tiny, who sits patiently waiting below. Comfortably rolled up on his side, his nose thrust between his thighs, he is wafted dreamily through space.
The sun goes gratefully down, saturating his coat with warmth and filling his mind and body with content. The rushing of the wind and the sighing of the long curved branches add to the sensuous enjoyment of his slumber....
He has always loved thus to swing and sway. At home at the burial-mound his favourite position is right at the very top of the little, wind-blown poplar. On the occasions when he has quarrelled with all the rest he likes to creep up there, and sit like a marten, with his paws drawn well in under him. For hours at a time he sits there with wrinkled scruff and half-shut eyes, enjoying the view out over the undulating land. At long intervals he lowers his head and peeps solemnly down, like an owl waking from sleep.
“Terror” finds the wait endless!