The remainder of the summer is the carnival of the swallows and flycatchers.  Flies and insects, to any amount, are to be had for the catching; and the opportunity is well improved.  See that sombre, ashen-colored pewee on yonder branch.  A true sportsman he, who never takes his game at rest, but always on the wing.  You vagrant fly, you purblind moth, beware how you come within his range!  Observe his attitude, the curious movement of his head, his “eye in a fine frenzy rolling, glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.”

His sight is microscopic and his aim sure.  Quick as thought he has seized his victim and is back to his perch.  There is no strife, no pursuit,—­one fell swoop and the matter is ended.  That little sparrow, as you will observe, is less skilled.  It is the Socialis, and he finds his subsistence properly in various seeds and the larvae of insects, though he occasionally has higher aspirations, and seeks to emulate the peewee, commencing and ending his career as a flycatcher by an awkward chase after a beetle or “miller.”  He is hunting around in the dull 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 to 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 he 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 feelings of the deepest concern.  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.