40 



THE OOLOaiST 



Duck Hawks, like the Eagles, seem 

 to have their own hunting grounds, 

 and while they may wander away a 

 little during the fall and winter, in 

 nesting season they stay pretty close to 

 home, and when once well established 

 in a locality only absolute destruction 

 will eliminate them. Taking the 

 eggs seems to be a temporary incon- 

 venience only, and when one bird is 

 killed another seems to be readily forth 

 coming to take its place. While they 

 may change the nesting site from one 

 suitable ledge to another on the same 

 cliff or even to go to another cliff a 

 mile or so away, they never leave the 

 locality altogether, and, like the 

 Eagles, sooner or later return to the 

 old nesting site. 



My birds had inhabited the same 

 great cliff for many years before 1 

 ever heard of them, and it was not 

 until 1900, several years after I did 

 hear of them, that I was able to really 

 make their acquaintance, which prov- 

 ed a most interesting one and lasted 

 for many years. This cliff was about 

 ten miles from my home and one love- 

 ly spring day I got after them, about 

 three weeks too late, as it proved. It 

 is as clear to me now as if it were 

 only yesterday instead of eighteen 

 years ago. The steep hills rising 

 abruptly from the boulder-fllled canon; 

 on one side the hills nearly bare with 

 round boulders and smooth rock sur- 

 faces, from which the soil had washed 

 away, running nearly to the top of 

 the hill; and on the other side the 

 lower slopes brush-covered and oak 

 trees for a way and then the cliff, 

 rising sheer and straight for hundreds 

 of feet and nothing but the steel-blue 

 sky beyond. From the boulders 

 ahead of me came the cheerful trill of 

 a Dotted Canon Wren, resting for a 

 moment from its seemingly endless 

 searching of the nooks and crannies 

 of the rocks. On the top of an enor- 



mous water-worn boulder a Black 

 Phoebe kept me in view, darting off, 

 now and then, on some entomological 

 quest over the water of a quiet pool 

 in the shadow of the rock, where a 

 couple of turtles were dozing near 

 the bank with their noses out of 

 water. Under the rock in a little 

 cool archway, where another great 

 boulder leaned across, was the 

 Phoebe's nest, well up above my 

 reach. A pair of Buzzards sailed slow- 

 ly up the canon, the long outer flight 

 feathers spread apart like fingers. 

 Then, suddenly, from far up on the 

 cliff came a long drawn out, penetrat- 

 ing cry, like the wail of a lost soul, 

 which, after a minute, was repeated 

 twice. Then, in a few minutes came 

 an answer from the upper part of the 

 canon, shorter, less penetrating, and 

 a sort of barking cry that sounded 

 exactly like the quacking of a duck, 

 (a cry that I never have heard these 

 birds give since) and then the bird 

 came in like a blue streak and lit on 

 a small projecting shelf about two- 

 thirds up the cliff, in a position that 

 looked from below to be inaccessible. 

 Then from another place, seemingly 

 above and to one side, came a series 

 of short yelps that could mean only 

 one thing, nearly full grown and very 

 hungry young. It was very hot in 

 the canon between the hills, but very 

 pleasant to sit in the shade of the 

 Phoebe's rock watching the White- 

 throated Swifts darting with incred- 

 ible speed to their nesting crevices 

 in the rocky wall and speculating as 

 to the best means of getting to them 

 and to the Duck Hawk's ledge if she 

 should go back to the same place 

 again, but it was a vain speculation, 

 for I never yet go to the Swifts nests 

 and it was eight years before the 

 Duck Hawk nested in that spot again. 

 The next season, 1901, she chose a 

 place near the bottom of the cliff and 



