ke it patiently when I see him chastised for his fault."

The Kingbird is a common bird in Eastern United States, but is rare
west of the Rocky Mountains. It is perhaps better known by the name of
Beebird or Bee-martin. The nest is placed in an orchard or garden, or
by the roadside, on a horizontal bough or in the fork at a moderate
height; sometimes in the top of the tallest trees along streams. It is
bulky, ragged, and loose, but well capped and brimmed, consisting of
twigs, grasses, rootlets, bits of vegetable down, and wool firmly
matted together, and lined with feathers, hair, etc.

[Illustration: From col. F. M. Woodruff.
KING BIRD.
Copyrighted by Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.]

THE KINGBIRD.

You think, my young friends, because I am called Kingbird I should be
large and fine looking.

Well, when you come to read about Kings in your history-book you will
find that size has nothing to do with Kingliness. I have heard,
indeed, that some of them were very puny little fellows, in mind as
well as in body.

If it is courage that makes a king then I have the right to be called
Kingbird. They say I have a reckless sort of courage, because I attack
birds a great deal larger than myself.

I would not call it courage to attack anything smaller than myself,
would you? A big man finds it easy to shoot a little bird in the air;
and a big boy does not need to be brave to kill or cripple some poor
little animal that crosses his path. He only needs to be a coward to
do that!

I only attack my enemies,--the Hawks, Owls, Eagles, Crows, Jays, and
Cuckoos. They would destroy my young family if I did not drive them
away. Mr. Crow especially is a great thief. When my mate is on her
nest I keep a sharp lookout, and when one of my enemies approaches I
give a shrill cry, rise in the air, and down I pounce on his back; I
do this more than once, and how I make the feathers fly!

The little hawks and crows I never attack, and yet they call me a
bully. Sometimes I do go for a Song-bird or a Robin, but only when
they come too near my nest. People wonder why I never attack the
cunning Catbird. I'll never tell them, you may be sure!

To what family do I belong? To a large family called Flycatchers.
Because some Kings are tyrants I suppose, they call me the Tyrant
Flycatcher. Look for me next summer on top of a wire fence or dead
twig of a tree, and watch me, every few minutes, dash in