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Updated: May 15, 2025
The warblers and smaller flycatchers are generally the sufferers, though I sometimes see the slate-colored snowbird unconsciously duped in like manner; and the other day, in a tall tree in the woods, I discovered the black-throated green-backed warbler devoting itself to this dusky, overgrown foundling.
As the horror of it all dawned on me, I hated Armstrong worse than ever, hated Whitecap, hated the man higher up, whoever he might be, who was enriching himself out of the defective, as well as the weakling, and the vicious all three typified by Snowbird, Armstrong and Whitecap.
"We've got to chop steps in the wall, and climb up in that way." "And abandon all our instruments and the telescope?" exclaimed Professor Henderson. "And the Snowbird?" added Mark. "We can hoist all the small things up to the top of this wall if we can get up there ourselves," said the old hunter. "Right you are, Mr. Sudds," declared Phineas Roebach, with vigor.
Mark, while at the controls, had scaled the machine down the air-ways until they were not more than fifteen hundred feet from the earth. But the boys decided to let the storm gather beneath them, and so shot the Snowbird up again until the indicator registered three thousand feet.
The Snowbird was already outside the hangar and on its wheels, ready for the start. This time they dispensed with the professor's catapult, for it would be necessary to have the trucks attached to the aeroplane to enable her to start properly from any point on which they might land.
At the instant when the nose of the airship should have been raised, so as to clear the tops of the forest trees and every building on the Henderson place, Mark instead guided the rapidly flying Snowbird far to the left. It skimmed the corner of the stable by a fraction of a foot, and Jack yelled: "Look out!" His cry made Mark even more nervous. The tall water-tank and windmill were right in line.
I have wandered on the plains of the Musk-ox, the home of the Snowbird and the Caribou. These were the things I had burned to do. Was I content? Content!! Is a man ever content with a single sip of joy long-dreamed of? Four years have gone since then. The wanderlust was not stifled any more than a fire is stifled by giving it air.
In a certain locality in the interior of New York, I know, every season, where I am sure to find a nest or two of the slate-colored snowbird. It is under the brink of a low mossy bank, so near the highway that it could be reached from a passing vehicle with a whip. Every horse or wagon or foot passenger disturbs the sitting bird.
They hoped to get the big bed filled with balsam boughs that afternoon before they started home, then the place would be ready for real use on a big scale; and, of course, it must have a name. "Let's call it Snowbird Retreat," suggested Fat naively. "Not on your life!" called Smith good-naturedly. "No snowbirds about this house; you want a good, warm, comfortable name.
There was other damage done, too how great this damage was the boys and the professor could not immediately discover. They were all alive that was one thing to be thankful for. And Washington White's Shanghai, aroused from sleep by the disturbance, began to crow vociferously. The Snowbird was wedged into a very small space upon the ledge of ice.
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