Instantly every crow was on the wing; they shot out from
both sides, many that I had not seen before, all cawing like mad. They
rushed upon the old fellow from the hickory, and for a few moments it
was impossible to make out anything except a whirling, diving rush of
black wings. The din meanwhile was deafening.
Something bright dropped from the excited flock, and a single crow
swooped after it; but I was too much interested in the rush to note
what became of him. The clamor ceased abruptly. The crows, after a
short practice in rising, falling, and wheeling to command, settled in
the pines on both sides of the field, where they had been before. And
there in the hickory was another crow with the same bright, flashing
thing in his beak.
There was a long wait this time, as if for a breathing spell. Then the
solitary crow came skimming down the field again without warning. The
flock surrounded him on the moment, with the evident intention of
hindering his flight as much as possible. They flapped their wings in
his face; they zig-zagged in front of him; they attempted to light on
his back. In vain he twisted and dodged and dropped like a stone.
Wherever he turned he found fluttering wings to oppose his flight. The
first object of the game was apparent: he was trying to reach the goal
of pines opposite the hickory, and the others were trying to prevent
it.
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