it as though to drive it through him, and then, 

 between these powerful wings, light as softly 

 upon the point as a sleeping babe is laid upon a 

 pillow from its mother's arms. 



Perhaps half a hundred now were gathered in 

 a writhing heap upon the ground. A banquet 

 this sans toasts and cheer— the very soul of the 

 unconvivial. It was a strange dumb-show in 

 serious reality, rather than a banquet. In the 

 stir of their scuffling, the dry clashing of their 

 wings, and the noise of their tumbling and pull- 

 ing and pecking as they moved together, I could 

 hear low, serpent-like hisses. Except for a sort 

 of half-heard guttural croak at rare intervals, 

 these hisses were the only utterances that broke 

 the silence. So far as I know, this sibilant, ba- 

 trachio -reptilian language is the meager limit of 

 the buzzard's faculty of vocal expression. With 

 croak and hiss he warns and woos. And what 

 tender emotion has a buzzard too subtle for ex- 

 pression by a croak or hiss'? And if he hates, 

 what need has he of words— with such a coun- 

 tenance 1 



But he does not hate, for he does not love. To 

 be able to hate implies a soul ; and the buzzard 

 [331] 



