When he opened his eyes in the gray morning light, he did hear something that made him sit up with a start. It was a deep booming sound, different from anything that he had ever heard. Ken called Pepe, and that roused the boys.
"Listen," said Ken.
In a little while the sound was repeated, a heavy "boo-oom! ... boo-oom!" There was a resemblance to the first strong beats of a drumming grouse, only infinitely wilder.
Pepe called it something like "faisan real."
"What's that?" asked Hal.
The name was as new to Ken as the noise itself. Pepe explained through George that it was made by a huge black bird not unlike a turkey. It had a golden plume, and could run as fast as a deer. The boys rolled out, all having conceived a desire to see such a strange bird. The sound was not repeated. Almost immediately, however, the thicket across the river awoke to another sound, as much a contrast to the boom as could be imagined. It was a bird medley. At first Ken thought of magpies, but Pepe dispelled this illusion with another name hard to pronounce.
"Chicalocki," he said.
And that seemed just like what they were singing. It was a sharp, clear song--"Chic-a-lock-i ... chic-a-lock-i," and to judge from the full chorus there must have been many birds.
"They're a land of pheasant," added George, "and make fine pot-stews."
The chicalocki ceased their salute to the morning, and then, as the river mist melted away under the rising sun, other birds took it up. Notes new to Ken burst upon the air. And familiar old songs thrilled him, made him think of summer days on the Susquehanna--the sweet carol of the meadow-lark, the whistle of the quail, the mellow, sad call of the swamp-blackbird. The songs blended in an exquisite harmony.