We discovered a hen-hawk’s nest on the top of a tall oak thirty or forty rods from the shanty and approached it cautiously.  One of the pair always kept watch, soaring in wide circles high above the tree, and when we attempted to climb it, the big dangerous-looking bird came swooping down at us and drove us away.

We greatly admired the plucky kingbird.  In Scotland our great ambition was to be good fighters, and we admired this quality in the handsome little chattering flycatcher that whips all the other birds.  He was particularly angry when plundering jays and hawks came near his home, and took pains to thrash them not only away from the nest-tree but out of the neighborhood.  The nest was usually built on a bur oak near a meadow where insects were abundant, and where no undesirable visitor could approach without being discovered.  When a hen-hawk hove in sight, the male immediately set off after him, and it was ridiculous to see that great, strong bird hurrying away as fast as his clumsy wings would carry him, as soon as he saw the little, waspish kingbird coming.  But the kingbird easily overtook him, flew just a few feet above him, and with a lot of chattering, scolding notes kept diving and striking him on the back of the head until tired; then he alighted to rest on the hawk’s broad shoulders, still scolding and chattering as he rode along, like an angry boy pouring out vials of wrath.  Then, up and at him again with his sharp bill; and after he had thus driven and ridden his big enemy a mile or so from the nest, he went home to his mate, chuckling and bragging as if trying to tell her what a wonderful fellow he was.

This first spring, while some of the birds were still building their nests and very few young ones had yet tried to fly, father hired a Yankee to assist in clearing eight or ten acres of the best ground for a field.  We found new wonders every day and often had to call on this Yankee to solve puzzling questions.  We asked him one day if there was any bird in America that the kingbird couldn’t whip.  What about the sandhill crane?  Could he whip that long-legged, long-billed fellow?

“A crane never goes near kingbirds’ nests or notices so small a bird,” he said, “and therefore there could be no fighting between them.”  So we hastily concluded that our hero could whip every bird in the country except perhaps the sandhill crane.

We never tired listening to the wonderful whip-poor-will.  One came every night about dusk and sat on a log about twenty or thirty feet from our cabin door and began shouting “Whip poor Will!  Whip poor Will!” with loud emphatic earnestness.  “What’s that?  What’s that?” we cried when this startling visitor first announced himself.  “What do you call it?”

“Why, it’s telling you its name,” said the Yankee.  “Don’t you hear it and what he wants you to do?  He says his name is ‘Poor Will’ and he wants you to whip him, and you may if you are able to catch him.”  Poor Will seemed the most wonderful of all the strange creatures we had seen.  What a wild, strong, bold voice he had, unlike any other we had ever heard on sea or land!