116 BIRD STORIES FROM BURROUGHS 



In was now the 20th of July, and the hawk 

 was about five weeks old. In a day or two he was 

 walking or jumping about the grounds. He chose 

 a position under the edge of a Norway spruce, 

 where he would sit for hours dozing, or looking 

 out upon the landscape. When we brought him 

 game, he would advance to meet us with wings 

 slightly lifted, and uttering a shrill cry. Toss him 

 a mouse or sparrow, and he would seize it with 

 one foot and hop off to his cover, where he 

 would bend above it, spread his plumage, look 

 this way and that, uttering all the time the most 

 exultant and satisfied chuckle. 



About this time he began to practice striking 

 with his talons, as an Indian boy might begin 

 practicing with his bow and arrow. He would 

 strike at a dry leaf in the grass, or at a fallen 

 apple, or at some imaginary object. He was learn- 

 ing the use of his weapons. His wings also, — 

 he seemed to feel them sprouting from his 

 shoulders. He would lift them straight up and 

 hold them expanded, and they would seem to 

 quiver with excitement. Every hour in the day 

 he would do this. The pressure was beginning to 

 centre there. Then he would strike playfully at 

 a leaf or a bit of wood, and keep his wings 

 lifted. 



The next step was to spring into the air and 



