Just as the party was at its merriest, he stood erect and called out in his loudest tone, “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk!” Instantly there was a confusion. Thrasher, quickly gathering his coat over his new vest, scurried into the nearest thicket. Quail, greedily bolting the last of his dessert, so far forgot his manners as to run straight across the table and hide himself in the tall grass; while Bob-o-link, checked in the midst of a brilliant speech, vanished among the nearby reeds. Last of all, the king, yielding to the universal panic, took wing. In a moment there was not a bird in sight. Then Crow, laughing to himself, flew down to the table and made short work of the feast to which he had not been invited. Just as he was finishing the last mouthful, King Bird, ashamed of his hasty flight, returned, ready to confront his deadly enemy. Instead of the expected Hawk, however, he found only Crow, just then hopping up from the table and carefully rubbing his bill against the side of a branch. Oh, what a rage he was in when he saw the trick that had been played upon them. With a snap of his bill, he flew at Crow like an arrow, and would undoubtedly have injured him had not the rascal taken instant flight. From that day to this, Crow has been an outcast. If you watch him carefully you will notice how warily he flies, for the smaller birds have never ceased to torment and abuse him. King Bird in particular has never forgiven the outrage, and whenever he hears Crow’s mocking voice calling “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk,” chases madly after him, crying out, angrily, “Cheat-thief, cheat-thief.” Sometimes Crow, as he thinks of the feast, laughs exultantly as if to say, “I got the best of you all that time.” Whereupon Quail, first glancing proudly at his own sleek form with the air of one who has not lived in vain, mounts the top of a nearby stump, and in his clear, shrill voice answers, “Not quite! not--quite!” [Illustration] LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD CHAPTER I AN INTERRUPTED STORY Although it was only five o’clock, and Manser Farm stood on a hill so that its windows caught the last gleam of the sun on a pleasant afternoon, the garret was growing dark. “Is it five or six days it’s been raining without any stop?” inquired Mrs. Ramsdell, as she dropped the lid of her horse-hair trunk and turned the key in the lock. “It’s only three days come six o’clock to-night,” said Aunty Peebles in her cheery treble. “Don’t you recall we were just going down to supper Monday when we heard the first drops on the tin roof? And this is only Thursday.” “Well, it seems like two weeks, that’s all I’ve got to say about it,” grumbled Mrs. Ramsdell, as she rose stiffly and whisked her black alpaca skirt back and forth till every speck of dust had flown away from it. Most of the specks settled on Grandma Manser who sat tranquilly knitting in her corner by the south window.