IRamble 



is something more than a mere murderer. Our 

 greatest ornithologist, Coues, has most apprecia- 

 tively described their habits and individuality, but 

 even he has omitted the hawk's ecstasy when 

 caught in a gale. The wild scream of the red- 

 tail that I heard some days ago might need some 

 modification, but would make a splendid chorus 

 for a lively song. It was the fullest expression of 

 exultation that I have ever heard. It was full of 

 meaning and force, not a senseless jargon like a 

 college cry. Our large hawks differ in their cries 

 or songs, as I prefer to call them, but the varia- 

 tions are not easily described. One that I some- 

 times hear is an echo on the plain of a storm in 

 the mountains ; a crashing of timber and rending 

 of rocks, softened by distance. 



The sunny side of the oak was well known to 

 a winter favorite, the brown tree-creeper, and he 

 soon appeared, stopping very near my shoulder, 

 and moving only a little way off when I turned 

 my head. It is a mistake to suppose that these 

 birds never rest during the day. If we watch 

 one for an hour and see it constantly on the move 

 during that time, we jump at the conclusion that 

 it never rests; but it does. I have seen them 

 cling to a bit of rugged bark and remain as mo- 

 tionless as a gray lizard. The one that ran to the 

 sunny side of the oak while I was standing there 

 did not remain quiet for more than a second at a 

 time, except once, when it stretched its neck well 



201 



