FullReads

She was a nervous old thing, but she was a good mother, and good mother hens, good animal mothers, and our own mothers too, never seem to think of themselves when there is danger around. They just look out for their little ones.

“Robber Hawk, robber! Shan’t touch ’em–robber!” she said.

Then–quick as a wink–there was another loud noise, just like that day when Jim Crow fell in the cornfield.

“Bang, bang!”

Jehosophat, Marmaduke and Hepzebiah jumped.

They looked around.

There stood the Toyman with the gun at his shoulder.

Little puffs of smoke like white feathers floated away from the muzzles of the gun.

“Winged him, anyway!” cried the Toyman.

They looked up.

Robber Hawk wasn’t sailing in the sky any longer.

He was falling, falling, like a stone–just like Jim Crow.

“The Toyman’s a good shot,” exclaimed Jehosophat. “My, how I wish I could shoot like that!”

Mother Green came to the back door.

She called to the Toyman:

“He’s fallen on the barn, Frank.”

“Roof, roof, roof!” barked little Wienerwurst to explain it more clearly.

Sure enough, Robber Hawk dropped on the roof of the barn, right by the Gold Rooster who swung on the weather-vane.

The Toyman scratched his head.

“Quite a climb for these stiff legs,” said he.

But he fetched a tall ladder and placed it against the side of the barn.

The three children watched him, their heads bent back so far that they almost snapped off.

Mother held the ladder at the foot, for nobody wanted anything ever to happen to the Toyman.

“Careful!” she warned him.

“All right, Mis’ Green,” he said. “I haven’t been up in the maintop for nothing.”

You see, once upon a time, he had been a sailor. There was nothing that the Toyman hadn’t done.

He reached the top of the ladder, then swung out on the roof. At last he reached the ridge.

There stood the Gold Rooster, never crowing or saying anything at all. And under him lay Robber Hawk, and he didn’t say anything either.

Carefully the Toyman climbed down from the ridge of the barn, holding the rascal in his hands. Then one by one down the rungs of the ladder he came.

When he reached the ground Jehosophat, Marmaduke and Hepzebiah gathered round.

Robber Hawk hung limp from the Toyman’s hand.

His dark brown feathers never stirred. His white breast with its dark bars and patches never moved.

“Robber Hawk,” spoke the Toyman, “your old curved beak will never feed on any more good chicken.”

Then he turned to the children.

“We must bury him by Jim Crow.”

So Jehosophat, Marmaduke, Hepzebiah, Rover, Brownie, Wienerwurst and the Toyman marched with Robber Hawk on towards the cornfield.

There by the side of Jim Crow they buried him.

And the Toyman took two pieces of wood. On these he cut with his knife:

JIM CROW
KILLED 1918
THIEF

ROBBER HAWK
KILLED 1918
THIEF AND MURDERER

At their heads he placed the two boards side by side.

“There we will leave them,” the Toyman spoke sternly, “as a warning to all evil-doers.”

So they walked back slowly to the House of the White Wyandottes where Mother Hen clucked contentedly once more and all the yellow chickens ran around, chasing the little bugs in their game of hide-and-seek. A fine game it was too, only it was more interesting for the chickens than the bugs, you see.

The three happy children noticed that one of the little yellow fellows was larger than the others. He–

“Ting–ting–ting–ting–ting–ting–ting!”

“End–that–tale–to–mor–row–night.”

So says the Little Clock. He must be obeyed. So good-bye for a little while.