THE BIRD'S-EYE VIEW. 



A FAMILIAR figure on the wintry sky of these 

 dark December days is the roving kestrel, so 

 plain to see now in the leafless landscape. Now he 

 drifts across the moor ; now he pauses to hover on 

 quick-beating wings ; now he sinks downward through 

 the frosty air to rest for a brief space upon the ground. 



A flock of redwings scattered over the meadow- 

 cower among the grass in terror as the keen wings 

 sweep overhead, or with shrill notes of alarm hurry to 

 the shelter of the nearest hedgerow. A troop of lap- 

 wings too, gathered in a motley crowd along the edge 

 of the pool that lies in the long hollow of the pasture, 

 catch sight of the flying figure, and rise hastily with 

 anxious cries as the dreaded wings draw near. 



But the hawk has no eyes for them. He is on the 

 watch for humbler booty, and the thrush and the lap- 

 wing have little to fear from his sharp bill, unless he 

 is driven by the scarcity of his usual simple fare to fly 

 at higher game. 



