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Updated: May 16, 2025
But the island seemed empty of life, and her yelling useless. Down dropped the raven in front of her. Down winnowed the hen-raven at the back of her. And, both together, they approached. And all the time the great black-backed gull continued to yell, "How-how-how-how!" At last, when he had got close enough, the cock-raven lunged at her, or, rather, underneath her.
It was of snow-white, and it was of jet-black, and it knocked the cock-raven one way, and sent the hen-raven, picking up her skirts, as it were, and fleeing, the other. And the name of the avalanche was Cob. I fancy he considered that he bore a grudge against that cock bandit-raven. Perhaps in dreams he could still feel that trap on his leg. Who knows?
She parried his stroke, and the hen-raven lunged. Nothing now, she knew, could save her eggs, unless she rose to fight the cock-raven. The hen-raven then ran in. She only required a second in which to ruin each egg, but she never got it. Nobody saw the avalanche coming, but everybody heard it arrive.
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