Bob gave me a pin, with which I made a little hole in each end of the egg. Then putting one end to my lips, I blew gently and steadily, until out came the clear white and then the yellow yolk, leaving the empty shell as light as a feather. Wrapping the egg in cotton, and placing it in a little pasteboard box that I took from my pocket, I felt certain that I could carry it home safely.
We found no more nests in the bushes, and after a while Bob said: "Let's make a bee-line for the bridge, and see if there's anything in that dead tree."
So we came back to the road, crossed the bridge, and went to the foot of a great dead elm-tree that stood on the side hill a little way from the river. It must have been struck by lightning, for it was nothing but a shell, and a long blackened crack reached from the top nearly to the bottom of it.
"I don't believe there's as much as a wasp's nest in there," said I.
"We'll see, anyway," replied Bob. "I'll fire a stone at that hole up by the top, and you stand back and watch if anything comes out."
Bob could throw a stone straighter than any other boy in school. He hit the trunk of the tree close by the hole, and in an instant something darted out with a loud whir, and vanished over the tree-tops.
"Bob," cried I, "that was a hawk."
"Hawks don't build in holes," replied Bob. "Perhaps it was an eagle."
"Eagles don't build in holes either," said I; "but I read yesterday that the pigeon-hawk does build in old dead trees."
"Then that's a pigeon-hawk sure enough," exclaimed Bob. "And there she is, sailing round in a circle, and watching us. What won't the boys say when they see us bringing home a lot of hawks' eggs?"