“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. “Why, some of them are our own birds come south for the winter,” declared Hal. “It’s music,” said Ken. “Just wait,” laughed George. It dawned upon Ken then that George was a fellow who had the mysterious airs of a prophet hinting dire things. Ken did not know what to wait for, but he enjoyed the suggestion and anticipated much. Ducks began to whir by; flocks of blackbirds alighted in the trees across the river. Suddenly Hal jumped up, and Ken was astounded at a great discordant screeching and a sweeping rush of myriads of wings. Ken looked up to see the largest flock of birds he had ever seen. “Parrots,” he yelled. Indeed they were, and they let the boys know it. They flew across the river, wheeled to come back, all the time screeching, and then they swooped down into the tops of the cypress-trees. “Red-heads,” said George. “Just wait till you see the yellow-heads!” At the moment the red-heads were quite sufficient for Ken. They broke out into a chattering, screaming, cackling discordance. It was plainly directed at the boys. These intelligent birds were curious and resentful. As Pepe put it, they were scolding. Ken enjoyed it for a full half-hour and reveled in the din. That morning serenade was worth the trip. Presently the parrots flew away, and Ken was surprised to find that most of the other birds had ceased singing. They had set about the business of the day--something it was nigh time for Ken to consider. Breakfast over, the boys broke camp, eager for the adventures that they felt to be before them. *VI* *WILDERNESS LIFE*