She had not
followed the trail many rods when her trouble began. She was not
Freckles, so not a bird of the line was going to be fooled into thinking
she was.
They began jumping from their nests and darting from unexpected places
around her head and feet, with quick whirs, that kept her starting and
dodging. Before Freckles was halfway to the town, poor Mrs. Duncan was
hysterical, and the Limberlost had neither sung nor performed for her.
But there was trouble brewing. It was quiet and intensely hot, with that
stifling stillness that precedes a summer storm, and feathers and
fur were tense and nervous. The birds were singing only a few broken
snatches, and flying around, seeking places of shelter. One moment
everything seemed devoid of life, the next there was an unexpected
whir, buzz, and sharp cry. Inside, a pandemonium of growling, spatting,
snarling, and grunting broke loose.
The swale bent flat before heavy gusts of wind, and the big black
chicken swept lower and lower above the swamp. Patches of clouds
gathered, shutting out the sun and making it very dark, and the next
moment were swept away.
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