strength and ferocity. Mere size is litMere size is little protection, for a goshawk will easily kill a rooster and even carry him off. That menacing shadow over the henyard which causes such a commotion on a still summer day in reality hovers over all the land of the little wild folk, by night as well as by day, and tragedy falls like the traditional bolt from the blue in open field and sedgy marsh and silent forest. On the twenty-ninth day of March, 1918, | I found a strange record on my mountainside. The body of a small skunk dangled over a bent sapling, about four feet from the ground. Beneath were snow and mud, without a track in them. The skunk showed no mark of shot, nor had there been any hunters in that vicinity. He could hardly have climbed up and straddled a sapling to die a natural death; besides, there were blood-marks on his head, throat, and back. In all probability he had been killed by a great horned owl, that being one of the few creatures I know which have any fondness for skunks, and either dropped because the owl wasn't hungry or else placed on the limb preparatory to eating, the owl having been scared away before the meal could begin. At any rate, I could see no other explanation.

It was on the eighteenth day of March this same year that I first noticed the hawks so prominent in the air. It was also the day that bird song and spring warmth were first apparent. Walking along a highroad above a pine-filled valley, I heard a loud commotion in the trees, and suddenly a score of crows burst up above the pines like black fragments of an explosion. In their midst was a bird of about the same size, which speedily made off. Four crows went in pursuit, however. I was too far away to make out with any certainty what variety of hawk this bird was, and the light was in my face, in addition. It was probably a Cooper's hawk. But I could see the four crows fly over him, and dart down every few feet to take a peck at his head. Meanwhile the crows which remained behind kept up an incessant racket in the

pines. The hawk made no effort to fight back, nor did he even seem greatly annoyed. Without any attempt to dodge or change his line of flight, he gradually accelerated his speed, swung down wind, and disappeared, the four crows being left astern after about a mile. Just what he had done to annoy them I cannot say. He may have been hungry and attacked one. But it doesn't pay to attack a crow. E pluribus unum is their motto. Literally thousands of crows will gather in less than two hours to attack a great horned owl which has killed one of their number. As a rule, I doubt if the hawks and owls trouble the crows very much, even though their nests are so similarly placed in the tops of the forest trees.

I had hardly finished watching this little battle over the pines when, on looking upward, I saw a big red-tailed hawk (the large bird commonly and mistakenly called a "hen-hawk") sailing far aloft on almost motionless pinions. It is a beautiful flight, this of the red-tailed hawk, only exceeded in consummate ease, perhaps, by the turkey buzzard of the South which is undoubtedly the king of aëronauts. He was sailing in great circles, apparently aimless, and it seemed incredible that from such a height he could see his prey on the earth below, even prey as large as a rabbit, not to mention mice, which are the chief staple of his diet. Yet he was probably intently watching the earth beneath, as his great loops swung him northward (much like the connected capital O's we used to have to push across the page of our "writingbooks" at school), and sooner or later he would drop from his aërial pathway and swing aloft again with his quarry.

That same day I saw a third hawk, sitting quietly on top of a large log in a pasture within two hundred feet of the trolley track. The car was moving rapidly, so I had little time for observation, but it seemed to be a red-shouldered hawk, which is a trifle smaller than the red-tailed, but rather closely resembles it, especially in habits of flight. I could see, however, that the noisy passage

of the trolley did not disturb this bird in the least. He was facing in the opposite direction, with his head down, as if he were watching the ground. It may be there was some quarry beneath that log which he was waiting for. A cat at a mouse-hole can be no more patient than a hawk.

It is by no means true that all hawks are seriously destructive of desirable bird and animal life. The so-called "hen hawk" is a case in point. Because this hawk, and the red-shouldered hawk, also, have soared in their great, beautiful circles high above our clearings since the first settlers came, and because hawks do unquestionably raid poultry-yards and kill pigeons and wild game-birds, the most conspicuous raptores have had the burden of reproach heaped upon them. Yet actually the red-tailed, or "hen-hawk," does probably as much good as harm to the farmer and the community. In that monumental work, The Birds of New York, by Elon Howard Eaton, is a table of stomach contents from all the varieties of hawks and owls found in New York' State, compiled from many careful investigations. In only 10 per cent. of the red-tailed hawks was any trace of poultry or game, and in only 9 per cent. any trace of other birds. The red-shouldered had a still smaller percentage. In both species 50 per cent. showed mice, and 45 per cent. of the red-shouldered showed insects. Doctor Eaton classes the redtailed hawk as "near the border-line of beneficent birds," however, and he puts the common marsh-hawk in the same rather doubtful class, because of its raids on birds, along with the barred and snowy owls. He leaves in the unquestionably injurious class, as birds of prey which should be exterminated, only these: the goshawk, Cooper's hawk, sharpshinned hawk, duck-hawk, pigeon-hawk and great horned owl. They are the ones which do the real damage, both goshawks and great horned owls, for example, showing as high as 36 and 25 per cent., respectively, of poultry and game in the stomach contents examined, while the

pigeon-hawk showed 85 per cent. of other birds, and the duck-hawk 35 per cent. of poultry and game and 45 per cent. of other birds. In none was there any commensurate percentage of mice or insects to balance this destruction.

So far as my own state of Massachusetts is concerned, there is no doubt that the goshawk during the severe winter of 1917-18 was the most serious menace to all our small wild game, next to the weather, and even a serious menace to our domestic fowls. Not only did this vicious, cruel, and incredibly swift and powerful bird, supposedly an inhabitant of the North, visit regions where hitherto he was comparatively unknown in any such numbers, but he seemed to be displaying a tendency to remain, at least for all the winter months. It may be he will yet have to be reckoned as our worst winged enemy. I collected that winter a few records of his exploits from my own immediate neighborhood, which can be duplicated, probably over most of New England and New York. The total amount of his destruction was certainly huge.

For example, a single goshawk near the city of Pittsfield wantonly killed seventeen pigeons, carrying away only one of them to eat. A goshawk in Sheffield was seen by a farmer to swoop upon a pheasant in a field and kill it. Another farmer lost several hens, and on more than one occasion was close by when the raid was made, but could never get his gun up quick enough to bag the hawk. Finally this hawk killed and managed to carry off a full-grown Plymouth Rock rooster. As the goshawk stands but twenty-one to twenty-two inches high, and weighs considerably less than the fattened fowl, you can gather some idea of its power. There were numerous other records of domestic fowl and pigeon killing, and tales by the hunters of pheasants, grouse, and even rabbits slaughtered by this pirate of the air. It is fortunate for us that the bird does not yet breed so far south as this. Though a few of our woodsmen maintained that the following spring the

goshawks were showing signs of breeding hereabouts, there was no real evidence obtainable that they ever did so.

Several specimens were shot that winter, one or two by irate farmers who watched the hen-yard, gun in hand, from a cover. The goshawk is certainly a savage-looking specimen, when properly mounted, the adult being slate-blue and gray, with black on the head, and having the longish body of the Cooper hawk, with more muscular power in it, fierce talons and beak, and a flashing eye. Every line of him looks cruel-and is cruel. Like the mink and weasel, he butchers for the sheer love of killing, even when he isn't hungry. He and the duckhawk are the Prussians of the bird kingdom.

The duck-hawk, fortunately, is rather rare, or at least it is rare in settled communities, because it builds its nest, or its apology for a nest, on the ledges of rock precipices (like the golden eagle), and consequently more or less requires a mountain country to breathe in. The duck-hawk (which is seventeen inches long, considerably smaller than the "henhawk" or goshawk) belongs to the falcon family-it is the Falco peregrinus anatum, and practically identical with the European peregrine falcon of the romantic days of falconry, those heroic days of old which we of the modern high-power rifle and soft-nosed expanding bullet think so cruel and bloody. The falcons differ The falcons differ from the hawks somewhat in their bills and talons, which are even better adapted for tearing and seizing prey, and in the relatively greater length and pointed character of their wings. The peregrine falcon, or duck-hawk, is undoubtedly a splendid bird if you judge him solely by strength and speed and cunning in flight. He most often seizes his prey on the wing, and now that water-fowl are scarce he takes about any birds he encounters, dropping upon them with a suddenness that leaves them no chance for escape.

The duck-hawks often nest year after year in the same place, apparently either the same birds or young of the parent

Their hunt

birds returning to the familiar cliff. On Sugar Loaf, a curious formation near Deerfield, Massachusetts, and also on the precipitous ledges of Monument Mountain in Stockbridge (the mountain celebrated by Bryant in a poem), there have been duck-hawks' nests for over a generation. The nesting-place on Monument can only be reached, as a rule, with an Alpine rope, and since the eggs are laid before the 1st of May, while the cliff is still wet, the egg-hunter takes his life in his hands. Last year, for the first time, I did not see the birds about the mountains at all, and three ascents of the cliff with a rope disclosed nothing except a partridge's nest on a dry, mossy shelf. My observation was not continuous nor thorough enough to say definitely that they were not there, but apparently this historic pair of birds have met their end at last. I cannot help hoping so, for they took, I am sure, a tremendous toll of bird life, including, I know, many meadow-larks and flickers. ing range, too, is great. I cannot say how great, but once or twice when I was on the mountain summit I have seen one of them coming from over the mountain on the far side of the valley, winging much like a pigeon, from regions at least fifteen miles away. If they hunt over a circle of only thirty miles in diameter (and probably it is very much more) the territory a pair can cover is considerable. Cooper and sharp-shinned hawks (smallish hawks, of fifteen to eighteen and ten to twelve inches, respectively) can be told apart because the Cooper has a rounded tail, the sharp-shinned a square tail. Both may be told from the small falcons-i. e., the so-called sparrow and pigeon hawks, because the falcons have long, pointed wings, the hawks short, rounded ones. Both Cooper and sharp-shinned hawks breed in the latitude of New England and New York, and even as far south as Florida. Both build nests in forest trees, the sharp-shinned selecting almost always evergreens, the Cooper taking an old crow's nest when convenient. They are true hawks in habit, coursing low through

The

the trees and shrubbery in pursuit of their game and employing the cover of foliage with uncanny skill. They take a terrible toll of bird life, from song-birds up to grouse and pheasants, and in summer they are the two hawks which are really responsible for most of the chicken-stealing. I have seen one come up to an orchard where hens were scratching, keeping the trees between him and his quarry till he was close by. Then he swooped like lightning in under the branches, seized a chicken, and rose with it, all before a man I could have reached for a gun and fired. The illustrator of this book tells me he once saw a sharp-shinned hawk fly so low he seemed to be actually hugging the ground. He reached a thick hedge, simply flowed up over it, and landed in a flock of pigeons on the other side, killing two of them before they knew he was anywhere about. Personally, I disapprove of egg hunting and collecting. There are plenty of available collections for study, and most eggs would do more good as birds than as neglected "specimens" amid the clutter of a boy's den. But if the boy can be taught to distinguish the eggs of the Cooper and sharp-shinned hawks, the more he collects the better! It will not benefit his clothes, but it will help the community and all the beneficent birds.

The sparrow-hawk (a small falcon) and the marsh-hawk (which may be distinguished unfailingly by the white upper tail coverts) should both be allowed to live, perhaps the former, at any rate. Their food for the most part consists of mice, insects, and so on, although both take a certain toll of bird life, especially the marsh-hawk. At the worst, they are South Germans, not Prussians. The sparrow-hawk is a pretty little falcon, with considerable rosy color on him, and is seen, perhaps, more often than almost any bird of prey by the average unobservant person, because he often sits on roadside telegraph poles or courses over the fields. I have seen them over the prairie close to the edge of the Rocky Mountains, and even in the heart of a

city. Mr. Stone1 records that once he had a studio in Washington near the Treasury Building, and a pair of sparrowhawks came daily to a telephone pole close by and lay in wait for the English sparrows, which they apparently took to their young somewhere in a concealed courtyard. (They often nest in hollow trees.) This would seem to suggest possibilities to those communities which are infested with sparrows. A few pairs of sparrow-hawks on every block would soon clean things up!

The marsh-hawk (which is a mediumsized bird, about seventeen inches long) has apparently the habit of hunting over a regular beat. I have records of this from points as distant as New England and Mexico (the latter recorded by Charles Livingston Bull). In each case the bird always appeared from a certain quarter, followed a definite line of flight while under observation, and disappeared at the same place. When the marshhawk notes some disturbance in the grass or gets sight of a mouse or young woodchuck or desirable insect, he suddenly stops, mounts a little, hovers watching, and then strikes with great speed. It is estimated that a pair will account for eleven hundred mice, small birds, and other prey in the ten weeks of incubation and rearing of a family. Were it not for the fact that something over 25 per cent. of this total is sure to be birds, the marshhawk would not be a bad fellow to have around. At the worst, he is listed only as "doubtful" by most ornithologists. To-day I stopped my motor beside a wide field and watched one hunting. He flew low-not over twenty feet up-and paid no attention whatever to the other birds, which were numerous. He was intently watching the ground as he flew, and when he finally struck-too far away for me to see clearly-it was at something on the ground, probably a field-mouse. On the other hand, in March, when there were still no insects and the mice were still

Walter King Stone, the illustrator of In Berkshire Fields.

hidden, I watched a marsh-hawk flying over the fields beside a small pond. He found nothing, and crossed the water. On the other shore he suddenly poised himself in mid-air for a long moment, then dropped to a height of only a few feet, and shot up over a little headland of shrubs, coming down into the bushes on the other side. As he swooped, I saw several small birds, probably song-sparrows, scatter with little cheeps of terror into the densest part of the shrubbery. As they scattered, the hawk wheeled and dodged about, trying to snatch one out of the air. He then rose twenty feet, hovered over the spot for some time, and eventually decided it was no use, darting swiftly away. The episode, however, did not make me feel very pleasantly toward him.

Eagles are becoming so rare in the East now that few people ever see one. Sometimes they think they see one, when it is in reality the big osprey, or fish-hawk. That noble-looking and vicious-acting brute, the golden eagle, who nests on inaccessible cliff ledges, has been driven more and more into remote mountain fastnesses. But the bald eagle still is found occasionally. In December, 1917, one was seen in southern New Hampshire, and the next day one was shot in Maynard, Massachusetts, while eating a pig he had just killed. Presumably it was the same bird seen in New Hampshire the day before. Twenty-five years ago we used to see bald eagles rather frequently both in Rhode Island, along the salt ponds, and in the wilder parts of the Berkshires and the White Mountains. But they are encountered less and less often now. You have to seek the high Rockies to find them a characteristic feature in the aërial perspective.

But the owls we have with us still. The taxidermists agree that more great horned owls were brought in the last two winters than in any season for years. In fact, the supply of artificial eyes for the stuffed specimens was entirely exhausted before the winter of 1917-18 was over. Frobably this means that the severe cold

added many birds from the north to our resident population. The great horned owl, or "six-hooter" as he is called in the Adirondacks, because of his "song," is the bad citizen among the owl tribe. (His "song," however, is by no means always of six hoots.) He is a big bird, standing often a full two feet high, and weighs about four pounds. He hunts by night, as a rule, but more than once he has been caught out in the daytime, and I have known of one with a crow in his talons, pursued by thousands of live crows, in full day. The crows did not molest him while he was perched, but when he attempted to fly they swarmed down upon him. It was in deep woods, and the uproar could be heard a mile away. He did not escape till darkness came. One of these big owls can easily kill a hen, or even a turkey, and on farms which adjoin the wild forests where the owls love to nest (in hollow trees or even in old crows' nests) they are often a serious pest. They also kill skunk, woodchuck, game-birds, and rabbits, as well as song-birds and mice. The call of the great horned owl is generally represented as follows: Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, whoo, whoo. It doesn't sound unlike the long-drawn toot of a distant freight-engine. An owl on my mountain last winter invariably omitted the first whoo.

I have found but one record of a snowy owl in western Massachusetts, though they not infrequently come down the seacoast in winter, from their northern home, even as far as Long Island. This one appeared a few years ago, and was captured single-handed by an old lady. She heard a commotion just at twilight in her chicken-yard, rushed out, and saw the great white bird, a total novelty to her, endeavoring to rise with her pet rooster in his talons. The rooster was putting up a good scrap, and the old lady rushed to his assistance, armed with her apron. She got the apron over the owl, and actually succeeded in getting him into the house, though both she and the apron showed the marks of the contest. One of the menfolks then appeared and killed it,