“Then,” said Wolfgang, “I must try myself: a plague on you, young springald, you have lost a noble chance!”
Wolfgang prepared himself with all his care, and shot at the bird. “It is out of distance,” said he, “and a murrain on the bird!”
Otto, who by this time had done whittling his willow-stick (having carved a capital caricature of Wolfgang upon it), flung the twig down and said carelessly, “Out of distance! Pshaw! We have two minutes yet,” and fell to asking riddles and cutting jokes; to the which none of the archers listened, as they were all engaged, their noses in air, watching the retreating bird.
“Where shall I hit him?” said Otto.
“Go to,” said Rudolf, “thou canst see no limb of him: he is no bigger than a flea.”
“Here goes for his right eye!” said Otto; and stepping forward in the English manner (which his godfather having learnt in Palestine, had taught him), he brought his bowstring to his ear, took a good aim, allowing for the wind and calculating the parabola to a nicety. Whiz! his arrow went off.
He took up the willow-twig again and began carving a head of Rudolf at the other end, chatting and laughing, and singing a ballad the while.
The archers, after standing a long time looking skywards with their noses in the air, at last brought them down from the perpendicular to the horizontal position, and said, “Pooh, this lad is a humbug! The arrow's lost; let's go!”
“HEADS!” cried Otto, laughing. A speck was seen rapidly descending from the heavens; it grew to be as big as a crown-piece, then as a partridge, then as a tea-kettle, and flop! down fell a magnificent heron to the ground, flooring poor Max in its fall.
“Take the arrow out of his eye, Wolfgang,” said Otto, without looking at the bird: “wipe it and put it back into my quiver.”