This is a picture of a bird called the Sparrow-hawk. It is rather a small kind of hawk, and contents itself with swooping down upon poor little unoffending sparrows, and such small game. Like other birds of prey, it is becoming more scarce every year in England, and being a very wild shy bird, it does not come near people or houses if it can help it. Still, when it is very hungry, or has little hungry bird-children at home in its nest, it becomes very brave and fierce, as you will see by the story I am going to tell you of what happened to me when I was a little girl.

It was, I remember, a very cold morning, and the trees were standing bleak and bare against the sky; the world looked dreary enough, and there were heavy clouds hanging over all. I had come out into the garden to bowl my hoop, when old Tidyman, the gardener, who was sweeping the snow from the paths, and who dearly loved a little chat, said to me,—

“We’ll be having a fine fall, missie, presently: it’s rare and cold surely. The birds is a’most starving: there be a sparrer-hawk a’hoverin over here as seems precious hungry. It have a nesty, I know, in that there holler tree in the park, and as soon as ever them pore little birds you see there trying to peck a bit, comes together, that there sparrer-hawk he comes after them. Looky there!” exclaimed the old man, pointing to a hawk high in the air above our heads, “if he ain’t a’hoverin over us now!”

The poor little dickies, who were pecking away at a few crumbs, which had been thrown out to them in the garden by some kind-hearted maid belonging to the house, seemed suddenly to become conscious of their danger, and flew off with a frightened twittering cry. One only—a very young and very foolhardy little sparrow—remained to take a last peck. The hawk singled out this poor birdie for his prey, and allowing the others to fly away in peace, suddenly swooped down upon the little laggard, fastening his cruel beak in its poor quivering body.

This took place within half-a-dozen yards of the spot where old Tidyman and I stood talking. I was but a child of seven years old, but I hated cruelty, and always longed to help the weak against the strong; so I rushed at the hawk, hoopstick in hand. The little sparrow was already dead; but what do you think the savage hawk did? It turned upon me, and flew at my face. I put my hand up just in time, and had a piece pecked out of one of my fingers instead.

When Tidyman came up, the horrid bird flew off, not forgetting, though, to pick up and carry off the little dead sparrow in triumph. I have no doubt the baby-hawks, in their nest in the hollow tree, greeted him with open mouths, as you see them in the picture, and they were fed not only with the little dead sparrow, but also with a nice piece out of my poor little finger.