I 
Ir Bill Buzzard had an enemy in the world i 
never heard of it. Cats, hawks, owls, foxes, and 
some other creatures sent dread into the hearts 
of many small birds, but they did not bother 
Bill. He never troubled his old red skinny head 
about them. Sometimes the kingbird that had 
a nest down by the swamp flew after him snap- 
ping its bill, and now and then a mosquito settled 
on his bald head, but he had long been accus- 
tomed to these slight annoyances. Having, 
therefore, practically no enemies to avoid, Bill 
Buzzard’s life held few excitements. He was 
just about as much like old Pete Wagstaff as a 
bird could be like a man. Probably he saw a 
good many interesting things, but as he never 
spoke, except to hiss now and then when some 
buzzard tried to get his food, no one ever heard 
him mention any of these. 
He always seemed equal to any emergency 
that ever arose in his rather unromantic life. 
For example, one morning during the winter 
before Pete grew to be afraid of him, it began 
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