He went to where they all had intended
going, but if they were there they hid from him, and feeling himself
scurvily deserted he went back to camp in no very pleasant humour.
They were not there. He sat by the fire awhile, then, yielding to his
habit of industry, he took off his coat and began to work at the dam.
He became engrossed in his work and did not notice the return of the
runaways till he heard a voice saying "What's this?"
On turning he saw Sam poring over his private note-book and then
beginning to read aloud:
"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird
Thou art----"
But Yan snatched it out of his hands.
"I'll bet the rest was something about 'Singbird,'" said Sam.
Yan's face was burning with shame and anger. He had a poetic streak,
and was morbidly sensitive about any one seeing its product. The
Kingbird episode of their long evening walk was but one of many
similar. He had learned to delight in these daring attacks of the
intrepid little bird on the Hawks and Crows, and so magnified them
into high heroics until he must try to record them in rhyme. It was
very serious to him, and to have his sentiments afford sport to
the others was more than he could bear.
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