rusted to look out for herself. And
for this reason, perhaps, his march was a progress to wonder at.

Did a flock of wild-duck come over from the sea with whistling wings,
he did not so much get under the over-hanging grass as _be_ there. Did
a "gaggle" of wild-geese go by high over, clamoring like hounds, he
went out like a blown candle. Did a party of teal--for it was the
magic hour of "flight," when all wildfowl shift their quarters to feed,
or not to feed--fairly hissing with speed, like masterless bullets,
dash over, he--well, he was not before you could realize that he had
moved.

Then up and flew round them a shape, and the name of that shape was
death. It might have been a gull with hawk-like form. It might have
been a hawk in gull-like light-gray uniform. And it might have been an
owl with gull-like dress and hawk-like lines. Whatever it was, it was
clipper-built, swift, and in fighting trim. As a matter of fact, it
was neither gull nor hawk nor owl, but a harrier, a hen-harrier--that's
its name, not its sex, for it was a cock--and the same is a half-way
house, so to speak, between hawk and owl. Possibly because they are
crepuscular, harriers may be thought more rare than they are. This one
was "crepusculing," and--the black rat did not like it. They had met
before, and Mr. Ratus had gained a lively dislike for this hawk-owl
combination, greater than his respect--which itself was not small--for
owl or hawk.

Seeing nowhere to go, and nothing to hide in when he got there, our Mr.
Ratus shifted from one spot to the other when the harrier made his
cat-like pounce--yes, he was something cat-like, too--and had the
pleasure of seeing the harrier's uninviting talons grab a clawful of
grass, which, by all powers of judgment, ought to have been black rat's
fur.

A mere hawk, or even an owl, might have considered this rebuff enough,
but not the harrier. _He_ wafted himself ten feet aloft on his long
narrow vans, and, flapping owl-like, or almost butterfly-like, began to
beat, and the beating of the harrying harrier, up and down, is one of
the most trying ordeals, for the game beaten for, in the wild.

Mrs. Ratus sat where she was, he presumed, playing the same bluff.

But both were without cover, and the black rat, I fear, devoutly hoped
that she would be fool enough to move and give herself away first;
whilst she, on her part, was cursing him for many kinds of a fool for
starting their "flitting" befo