Killy-killy-killy-killy!

That's my song and I don't sing it very low either. It is for that reason some people call me the Killy Hawk.

The boys who spend much time in the fields are very well acquainted with me. Many a time, I dare say, they have seen me patiently sitting, for an hour or more, on a lofty branch waiting for "something to turn up."

Something does generally turn up, and that is a mouse. "Ah," says she, peeking out from her nest, "there is nobody around, so I will go out for a walk," and out she comes, not noticing me way up in the tree, of course.

Then I dive from my perch and fly directly over her. A mouse can't keep still, somehow, and from point to point she runs, zigzagging this way and that way, giving me lots of trouble, for I have to zigzag, too. After awhile she stands still for a minute, and so do I, up in the air, my fan-like tail spread out very wide, my head lowered and—well, pretty soon it is all over with Mrs. Mouse. But mice are nuisances anyway, don't you think? Just because people have seen me do that little trick they call me the Mouse Hawk. I catch Sparrows, and other small birds, so they call me the Sparrow Hawk, too.

I don't care what they call me, to tell you the truth, just so they let me alone. It's not pleasant to have a stone thrown at you, or a gun pointed your way——if it is loaded, and they generally are loaded, I notice, with something that hurts.

My nest? Oh, I don't care for that sort of work, so I never build one. Any natural hole in a high tree, the deserted hole of a Woodpecker, or a Magpie's nest, is good enough for me. Just a few leaves in the bottom, and on them my mate lays five eggs, sometimes six, sometimes seven.