Here was knowledge based on observation, and not on books. The bird was 

 a white-breasted nuthatch, and the experience of a few days showed that it was 

 known to most of the inhabitants of that Lost River Valley as a sapsucker, a 

 name suggestive of injury to trees, and a name which has brought upon the 

 tribe of Indiana nuthatches much undeserved persecution. 



A scream, "Keo-u, keo-u," came sharply across a field which stretched away 

 toward the river. A large hawk was making for a solitary sycamore which stood 

 in the field's center. He was in ignominious flight with two crows in hot pursuit. 

 The hawk pitched upon a limb and clung there, though one of his pursuers 

 struck him full and fair. The impact swung the hawk about, but he made no 

 attempt to retaliate. Our driver kindly stopped his horses, and we glued our 

 glasses on the big bird. It was a red-shouldered hawk, beyond much doubt, 

 though positive identification at the distance was impossible. The crows took a 

 perch just above his hawkship and dropped down alternatively to give him a 

 peck and a wing stroke, which he took with cowardly humility. The red- 

 shouldered hawk will strike and carry off a game-cock, but the spurless crow is 

 his master. Why it is that this bird, so well fitted by Nature for fighting, should 

 allow himself on all occasions to be browbeaten and thrashed is something that 

 is past finding out. The crow is literally the bete noir of the hawk tribe. Per- 

 haps the reason may be, as our Indiana friend suggested, "The crow has the devil 

 in him, and every bird and everybody is afraid of the devil." 



The road wound round the base of one of the many hills. A bird flushed 

 from the wayside, took to the top of a pole which served as a support for the 

 rails of the crooked fence. "One of the smaller thrushes," was the first thought, 

 out it was too early even in southern Indiana for the hermit or the veery. The 

 bird sang softly. No bell-like thrush notes these. The singer was the fox 

 sparrow, the largest of his tribe, but this vocal effort was not his best. Foxie 

 seemed to feel that even though the sun were bright in the valley, there might be 

 storm conditions yet ahead, and that the time had not yet come for the fullness of 

 song. It has always seemed to me that the fox sparrow of the Middle West is of 

 a richer color than his Eastern brother. When the sun strikes his back, it is 

 positively red ; then, too, there seems to be a deeper shade to the brown spots 

 and stripes upon the breast of our Western bird. The sparrow had been gleaning 

 the roadside in company with a lot of juncoes, otherwise and more lengthily 

 known as slate-colored snowbirds. The juncoes flitted leisurely along in front 

 of the wagon, flirting their tails and showing the snow-white feathers which are 

 their distinguishing mark. I believe that the juncoes are inordinately proud pf 

 these white markings. Certain it is that never one of them takes wing without 

 making a greater showing of the snowy feathers. There must have been five 

 hundred of the juncoes all told, with here and there in the flock some cinnamon- 

 crowned Canadian tree sparrows. 



The thoughts of the whole flock were bent on food. Suddenly there came 



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