But Oscar’s kindling imagination is not satisfied with this feat. It must try again. The bird eludes his gun, but he follows it, and discovers its haunt, on a steep and rocky precipice, near one of the mountain summits. Throwing aside his gun, and grasping such scanty and stunted trees as are at hand, he boldly lowers himself down the frightful chasm. One misstep, the giving way of a single slender twig, would plunge him headlong to destruction; but what cares he for that? There is a prize below, and he is determined to have it. Now he catches a glimpse of the nest, on a narrow, shelving rock, and for the first time discovers that there are two old birds, which, with outspread wings, are guarding their young brood. Undaunted, he descends the steep and slippery rocks, till he is almost within reach of the nest. Now the eagles, roused to fury, fly at him, and with wing, beak and talon commence the assault. Supporting himself by one hand, he uses the other and one foot to ward off the assailants. Long the battle rages, and again and again the adventurous hunter seems almost overcome; but when about to sink down, faint and gasping, the birds, battered and exhausted, give up the contest in despair. The boy seizes the prize, scrambles up the fearful precipice, and hurries home, to raise a brood of eagles.
“But this isn’t writing my letters,” exclaimed Oscar to himself, suddenly awaking from his day dream. “A whole hour gone, and not a line written yet. Well, I’ll go about it, now. I think I’ll write to mother first. Let me think—what day of the month is it? I am sure I can’t tell—I must run down stairs and find out.”
Oscar went down to the sitting-room, and, by referring to a newspaper, ascertained the date. But, before he laid the paper aside, his eye was attracted by the heading of a story, and, on reading a few lines, he became so much interested in it, that he took the journal up to his room, and thought of nothing else until he had finished reading the piece. Then, remembering his neglected task, he hurriedly arranged his paper, and wrote the date and complimentary address. But the ink did not flow freely from his pen, and, taking a sheet of waste paper, he commenced scribbling upon it, to see if he could remedy the trouble. How long he continued this diversion, he was scarcely aware, but at length it was interrupted by a step on the stairs, and a knock at his door. Quickly concealing the well scribbled evidence of his idleness, he bade the visitor walk in, and Marcus entered.
“Well, how do you get along?” inquired Marcus.
“Not very well,” replied Oscar. “I have been hindered by one thing and another, ever since I began. To begin with, just after I came up here, I saw an eagle flying over. Didn’t you see it?”
“No—but are you sure it was an eagle?” inquired Marcus.
“Why, yes, it must have been an eagle,” replied Oscar. “It was the largest bird I ever saw, and I should think he was all of a mile high when he flew over. He lit on the Peak, and that was the last I saw of him.”
“Yes, I remember, now,—I did see a hawk over in that neighborhood, and that must have been your eagle,” quietly observed Marcus.
Oscar did not relish such a summary disposal of his eagle story, and was about to protest against it, when Marcus inquired how many letters he had finished.
“None,” replied Oscar.