﻿48 Bird - Lore 



feathers, notably of Wild Ducks, ornamented with a red catkin, probably 

 of the alder. 



One could do far worse than to spend the entire season at the Magda- 

 lens to study bird-life, and remain long enough to take in the fall migration, 

 especially of the shore-birds, now so scarce on the coasts of the New Eng- 

 land and Middle States. In such an event, prudence would require taking 

 along a good supply of canned provisions, unless one wants to live on the 

 soda-biscuit, crackers, cheese and ' tea ' of the poor but hospitable islanders. 



A Familiar Sparrow Hawk 



By NATHAN CLIFFORD BROWN 



TOWARD five o'clock of an afternoon about the beginning of Jan- 

 uary, 1906, I saw a Sparrow Hawk, apparently a male, fly under the 

 piazza roof of the Kirkwood, a winter hotel which had just been 

 opened for the season, at Camden, South Carolina. He immediately flew 

 out again, but soon returned. Within a few minutes he went in and out 

 several times. Finally he alighted upon an electric light wire running along 

 the rafters of the piazza, then, after a moment, descended to the capital of 

 a pillar at the corner, whence he mounted almost instantly between two 

 rafters and disappeared. 



I found him perched upon an irregular piece of board, perhaps twelve by 

 eight inches along its longest sides, which had been nailed between the 

 rafters so that three electric-light wires might be easily brought about the 

 corner. With the rafter running obliquely and forming the ridge in the 

 roof at the corner, and with two intersecting rafters and the roof, it made a 

 sort of box closed all about except upon one side, but with a small triangu- 

 lar hole at one corner in the bottom. This hole was about three inches by 

 three by four. The bird's wings and tail protruded through it. The box 

 was about five inches high. As I stood beneath it, I suppose it was about 

 seven feet above my head. 



Until January 20 I went to this place several times every day, and never 

 failed to find the bird there about five o'clock in the afternoon; I never 

 found him at other hours except before he left in the morning. He did not, 

 however, go to roost regularly. One very fine afternoon, when the sun 

 was fully an hour high, I found him already established for the night at 

 twenty minutes to five, eastern time. Two days later, the weather being 

 damp, and the sky heavily overcast, he had not retired at ten minutes past 

 five. At a quarter to six he was there. On January 13 I found him in his 

 box at twenty-eight minutes past four. This was a dark afternoon, with a 

 drizzling rain falling and the thermometer at forty-six. On January 15 he 

 went to roost at a quarter past five, on the departure of a carpenter who 



