The lover ducked and side-stepped a few feet. He spread his wings
and slowly and softly waved them precisely as if he were fanning his
charmer, which was indeed the result he accomplished. Then a wave of
uncontrollable tenderness moved him so he hobbled to his bombardment
once more. He faced her squarely this time, and turned his head from
side to side with queer little jerks and indiscriminate peckings at her
wings and head, and smirkings that really should have been irresistible.
She yawned and shuffled away indifferently. Freckles reached up, pulled
the quill from his hat, and looking from it to the birds, nodded in
settled conviction.
"So you're me black angels, ye spalpeens! No wonder you didn't get in!
But I'll back you to come closer it than any other birds ever did. You
fly higher than I can see. Have you picked the Limberlost for a good
thing and come to try it? Well, you can be me chickens if you want to,
but I'm blest if you ain't cool for new ones. Why don't you take this
stick for a gun and go skinning a mile?"
Freckles broke into an unrestrained laugh, for the bird-lover was keen
about his courting, while evidently his mate was diffident.
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