While they stood there close to
the old linhay a bird came flying round them in wide circles, uttering
shrill cries. It had a long beak and long, pointed wings, and seemed
distressed by their presence. Little Gyp squeezed her mother's hand.
"Poor bird! Isn't it a poor bird, mum?"
"Yes, dear, it's a curlew--I wonder what's the matter with it. Perhaps
its mate is hurt."
"What is its mate?"
"The bird it lives with."
"It's afraid of us. It's not like other birds. Is it a real bird, mum?
Or one out of the sky?"
"I think it's real. Shall we go on and see if we can find out what's the
matter?"
"Yes."
They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle,
vanishing and reappearing from behind the trees, always uttering those
shrill cries. Little Gyp said:
"Mum, could we speak to it? Because we're not going to hurt nothing, are
we?"
"Of course not, darling! But I'm afraid the poor bird's too wild. Try,
if you like. Call to it: 'Courlie! Courlie!"'
Little Gyp's piping joined the curlew's cries and other bird-songs in
the bright shadowy quiet of the evening till Gyp said:
"Oh, look; it's dipping close to the ground, over there in that
corner--it's got a nest! We won't go near, will we?"
Little Gyp echoed in a hushed voice:
"It's got a nest."
They stole back out of the gate close to the linhay, the curlew still
fighting and crying behind them.
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