you have lost this spring, and you all did so.” 
He reached for a jar and poured half a pint of 
metal pigeon bands jingling on the table. ““Gen- 
tlemen,”’ he said, “here are the bands from your 
missing birds. All of these were taken from the 
nest of Black Warrior—deceased.” 
With one accord they rose and gathered about 
the table to examine them. “Percy, old boy,” 
exclaimed one of the men, “you are a wonder.” 
And the others heartily echoed the sentiment. 
Over in New Jersey there lives a modest nat- 
uralist who spends much time along the Palisades 
and knows many of its secrets. Not long ago he 
said to me, “Someone shot the female duck 
hawk that had a nest on the cliff this spring, but 
the male quickly found another mate some place 
and now has a new nest not a hundred yards 
from where the old one was situated.” 
I do not suppose he will tell this to Mr. Percy 
Wing, and as it was told to me in confidence I 
am sure I will never let him know that the cliffs 
are still haunted by the Black Warrior of the 
Palisades. 
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