Pewee,
commencing and ending his career as a Flycatcher by an awkward chase
after a Beetle or "Miller." He is hunting around in the grass now, I
suspect, with the desire to indulge this favorite whim. There!--the
opportunity is afforded him. Away goes a little cream-colored
Meadow-Moth in the most tortuous course he is capable of, and away goes
_Socialis_ in pursuit. The contest is quite comical, though I dare say
it is serious enough to the Moth. The chase continues for a few yards,
when there is a sudden rushing to cover in the grass,--then a taking to
wing again, when the search has become too close, and the Moth has
recovered his wind. _Socialis_ chirps angrily, and is determined not to
be beaten. Keeping, with the slightest effort, upon the heels of the
fugitive, he is ever on the point of halting to snap him up, but never
quite does it,--and so, between disappointment and expectation, is soon
disgusted, and returns to pursue his more legitimate means of
subsistence.

In striking contrast to this serio-comic strife of the Sparrow and the
Moth, is the Pigeon-Hawk's pursuit of the Sparrow or the Goldfinch. It
is a race of surprising speed and agility. It is a test of wing and
wind. Every muscle is taxed, and every nerve strained. Such cries of
terror and consternation on the part of the bird, tacking to the right
and left, and making the most desperate efforts to escape, and such
silent determination on the part of the Hawk, pressing the bird so
closely, flashing and turning and timing his movements with those of the
pursued as accurately and as inexorably as if the two constituted one
body, excite feeling of a deep interest. You mount the fence or rush
out of your way to see the issue. The only salvation for the bird is to
adopt the tactics of the Moth, seeking instantly the cover of some tree,
bush, or hedge, where its smaller size enables it to move about more
rapidly. These pirates are aware of this, and therefore prefer to take
their prey by one fell swoop. You may see one of them prowling through
an orchard, with the Yellowbirds hovering about him, crying, _Pi-ty,
pi-ty_, in the most desponding tone; yet he seems not to regard them,
knowing, as do they, that in the close branches they are as safe as if
in a wall of adamant.

August is the month of the high-sailing Hawks. The Hen-Hawk is the most
noticeable. He likes the haze and the calm of these long, warm days. He
is a bird of leisure, and seems always at h