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Like a black pirate flag on the blue ocean of air, a hawk hung ominous; then, plummet-wise, dropped to the hedgerow, whence there rose, thin and shrill, a piteous voice of squealing. By the time I got there a whisk of feathers on the turf like scattered playbills was all that remained to tell of the tragedy just enacted. Yet Nature smiled and sang on, pitiless, gay, impartial.
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