MORE ABOUT MY FEATHERED FRIENDS. 81 



" Ugh ! Shoot no more hawk-owl, nor eagle ; no 

 more again. He like to kill me ! " 



Then, becoming a little less excited, he gave the 

 history of his trouble in tolerably good English, for 

 Peter was Indian only on the mother's side. 



" I went out shoot something in woods for dinner. 

 No partridge, no squirrel, no hare. See mister hawk- 

 owl on branch in cedar-swamp — shoot him. ' Guess 

 William Brown here give me something good for hawk-, 

 owl. Stuff, you know. Pick him up, draw him through 

 sash,, carry him so. By and by hawk-owl, him not 

 'dead, him get alive again — stick him beak and claws in 

 my back. By Jove, I sing out ! Couldn't get beak out 

 of my back-bone. I keep yell loud, till brother John he 

 come. Hawk he hold on. No get him let go. John he 

 say, ' Cut him's head off',' and it hard work then to get 

 him beak out of my back. I swear, I never shoot 

 hawk-owl, no, nor eagle, no more." 



Poor Peter, I do not think he quite approved at first 

 of the peals of laughter with which his story was 

 received. It certainly was very droll and greatly 

 diverted his unsympathetic auditors. 



However, Peter was comforted by a small gift and a 

 plug of tobacco from the Major. 



THE BLUEBIRD. 



As the redbreast is to the British Isles, so is the blue- 

 bird to the Americans. It is often spoken of as 



