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Updated: May 8, 2025
He came with an occasional "clicker-a-clicker" then, when near her, he sprung fifty feet in the air and dashed down, screaming his slogan without interruption, darting zigzag with the most surprising evolutions and turns this way, that way, sideways and downward, dealing the deadliest blows right and left at an imaginary foe, then soared, and did it all over again two or three times, just to show how far he was from being tired, and how much better he could have done it had it been necessary.
"Clicker-a-clicker" and the dauntless little warrior dropped between his wings, stabbing and tearing. The Hawk bucked like a mustang, the Kingbird was thrown, but sprung on agile pinions above again. "Clicker-a-clicker," and he struck as before. Large brown feathers were floating away on the breeze now. The Meadow Lark was forgotten. The Hawk thought only of escape.
"Clicker-a-clicker!" he shrieked, like a cateran shouting the "slogan," and down like a black-and-white dart to strike the Hawk fairly between the shoulders just as the Meadow Lark dropped in despair to the bare ground and hid its head from the approaching stroke of death. "Clicker-a-clicker" and the Hawk wheeled in sudden consternation.
"Clicker-a-clicker," the slogan still was heard. The Hawk was putting on all speed to get away, but the Kingbird was riding him most of the time. Several brown feathers floated down, the Hawk dwindled in the distance to a Sparrow and the Kingbird to a fly dancing on his back.
With a loud harsh twitter his war-cry repeated again and again, with his little gray head-feathers raised to show the blood-and-flame-coloured undercrest his war colours he darted straight at the great robber. "Clicker-a-clicker," he fairly screamed, and made for the huge Hawk, ten times his size.
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