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is most unhealthful, there may be times when a beast like the polecat
may not advertise itself enough. And this was one of those times.

Far overhead, circling grandly on effortless, still, great pinions,
swimming, one might say, in the dome of the sky, a big bird, known as a
buzzard, was staring downwards with the flashing, sheathed glance of
all birds of prey--and aviators--at the world below. She, too, had
young, and simply had to find a meal. The hour was late, and her
success _nil_. Perhaps that accounted for much. Perhaps, however, all
she saw was that half-glimpse of dull, tawny fur, which accounted for
still more; that is to say, she probably made a mistake.

Anyway, the polecat was suddenly aware of a sound like the swish of a
lady's skirt in the air above him, and of a dimming of the light. He
sprang forward first, and glanced up second--knowing the rules of the
wild. But he was too late, for instantly the long, hooked talons of
the bird came down through the grass, and gripped. It was an awful
handshake, for the bird was a buzzard, we said, who is a sort of
smaller and less kingly edition of the eagle, without the imperial
power.

For a few seconds there followed an awful struggle--great wings beating
mightily downwards, beak hammering, and fangs meeting the hammerings
with audible clashings. It seemed that the bird could not quite lift
the beast, and that the beast could not quite retain connection with
solid earth.

And then the bird rose, slowly, strainingly, with her vast pinions
winnowing the air with deep "how-hows!" Like mighty fans rose she,
still gripping the struggling polecat hard by the back in a locked
clutch of steel--up and up, and out over the estuary, growing slowly
from a great bird to a medium-sized one, to a smaller, and a smaller,
all the time fighting, it seemed, like a mad creature, to gain the
upper air, to climb to the clouds, as a drowning man fights his way
upwards in the water. And there was reason--the old polecat's jaws
were fast shut in a vise-grip, as of a Yale lock, upon her throat.

Never a sound broke the silence that brooded forever--in spite of the
wind--over the lake-like, flattened expanse of the estuary save the
deep "how-how!" of the buzzard's superb pinions as she climbed slowly
into the sublime vault of the heavens; never a sound from bird or from
beast. The beast hung on, dumbly dogged, with fangs that met in the
flesh beneath the