Sometimes he stirred, but mostly he huddled
still, leaning his queer crested head on one side. He touched no food,
and took no heed of sounds or movements. We talked of brandy or
stimulants. But I realized we had best leave him alone.
In the night, however, we heard him thumping about. I got up anxiously
with a candle. He had eaten some food, and scattered more, making a mess.
And he was perched on the back of a heavy arm-chair. So I concluded he
was recovered, or recovering.
The next day was clear, and the snow had frozen, so I decided to carry
him back to Tible. He consented, after various flappings, to sit in a big
fish-bag with his battered head peeping out with wild uneasiness. And so
I set off with him, slithering down into the valley, making good progress
down in the pale shadow beside the rushing waters, then climbing
painfully up the arrested white valleyside, plumed with clusters of young
pine trees, into the paler white radiance of the snowy, upper regions,
where the wind cut fine. Joey seemed to watch all the time with wide
anxious, unseeing eye, brilliant and inscrutable. As I drew near to Tible
township he stirred violently in the bag, though I do not know if he had
recognized the place. Then, as I came to the sheds, he looked sharply
from side to side, and stretched his neck out long. I was a little afraid
of him. He gave a loud, vehement yell, opening his sinister beak, and I
stood still, looking at him as he struggled in the bag, shaken myself by
his struggles, yet not thinking to release him.
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