100 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER . 
Far away in the swampy woods to the north 
a big red-shouldered hawk cried ky-e, 
hy~e .” I remembered the morning, just a year 
previous, when, sitting in about the same spot, 
with Puffy perched on a dead limb over my 
head, a red-shouldered hawk had flown with 
stately wing-beat to one of the lower branches 
of the dead tree, and then, suddenly discovering 
the owl, had thrust its head forward, opened 
wide its beak, and, with its fierce eyes glaring, 
had shrieked its hatred at the almost unmoved 
owl. This morning it did not visit the meadow, 
probably finding its humble game nearer home. 
The first bird to appear flying above the level 
of the meadow was a graceful night-hawk. 
Perhaps he had just come down from a night’s 
revel in the cool air over Chocorua’s summit. 
I wondered whether he had been one of a com¬ 
pany of between two and three hundred of his 
tribe which deployed across the sky on the af¬ 
ternoon of the 19th, just in advance of a violent 
thunderstorm. Yearly, about the 20th of Au¬ 
gust, the night-hawks muster their forces and 
parade during one or two afternoons. Yet 
there seems to be no diminution in the number 
of the local birds after the army disappears. 
Perhaps it is formed of migrants from the 
north; or perhaps the display is, after all, only 
a drill, preparatory to a later flight. 
