THE SPARROW HAWK. 



Killy-killy-kiUy-killy ! 



That's my song and I don't 

 sing it very low either. It is 

 for that reason some people call 

 me the Killy Hawk. 



The boys who spend much 

 time in the fields are very well 

 acquainted with me. Many a 

 time, I dare say, they have seen 

 me patiently sitting, for an hour 

 or more, on a lofty branch wait- 

 ing for '' something to turn up." 



Something does generally turn 

 up, and that is a mouse. ^' Ah," 

 says she, peeking out from her 

 nest, '^ there is nobody around, 

 so I will go out for a walk," and 

 out she comes, not noticing me 

 way up in the tree, of course. 



Then I dive from my perch 

 and fly directly over her. A 

 mouse can't keep still, somehow, 

 and from point to point she runs, 

 zigzagging this way and that 

 way, giving me lots of trouble, 

 for I have to zigzag, too. After 

 awhile she stands still for a 

 minute, and so do I, up in the 



air, my fan-like tail spread out 

 very wide, my head lowered and 

 — well, pretty soon it is all over 

 with Mrs. Mouse. But mice are 

 nuisances anyway, don't you 

 think ? Just because people 

 have seen me do that little trick 

 they call me the Mouse Havv^k. 

 I catch Sparrows, and other 

 small birds, so they call me the 

 Sparrow Hawk, too. 



I don't care what they call me, 

 to tell you the truth, just so 

 they let me alone. It's not 

 pleasant to have a stone thrown 

 at you, or a gun pointed your 



way if it is loaded, and they 



generally are loaded, I notice, 

 wdth something that hurts. 



My nest ? Oh, I don't care for 

 that sort of work, so I never build 

 one. Any natural hole in a high 

 tree, the deserted hole of a Wood- 

 pecker, or a Magpie's nest, is good 

 enough for me. Just a few 

 leaves in the bottom, and on 

 them my mate lays five eggs, 

 sometimes six, sometimes seven. 



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