—shoots roofward with fearfal speed. The 

 chimneys ! Quick ! 



Quick he is. Just short of the roofs the taut 

 wings flash a reverse, there is a lightning swoop, 

 a startling hollow wind-sound, and the rushing 

 bird is beating skyward again, hawking delib- 

 erately as before, and uttering again his peevish 

 nasal cry. 



This single note, the only call he has besides a 

 few squeaks, is far from a song ; farther still is 

 the empty-barrel-bung-hole sound made by the 

 air in the rushing wings as the bird swoops in 

 his fall. The night-hawk, alias " bull-bat," does 

 not sing. What a name bull-bat would be for a 

 singing bird ! But a "voice " was never intended 

 for the creature. Voice, beak, legs, head — 

 everything but wings and maw was sacrificed 

 for a mouth. • What a mouth ! The bird can 

 almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in the 

 head could never mean a song ; it could never 

 be utilized for anything but a fly-trap. 



We have use for fly-traps. We need Some 

 birds just to sit around, look pretty, and watble. 

 We will pay them for it in cherries or in what- 

 ever they ask. But there is also a great need 

 [9.] 



