ked upon this brave, simple fisherman, who built his
nest by their doors, much as the German village people look upon the
stork that builds upon their chimneys, and regarded his coming as an
omen of good luck and plenty to the fisher folk.

Far back in the wilderness, where Ismaques builds his nest and goes
a-fishing just as his ancestors did a thousand years ago, one finds the
same honest bird, unspoiled alike by plenty or poverty, that excited our
boyish imagination and won the friendly regard of our ancestors of the
coast. Opposite my camp on the lake, where I tarried long one summer,
charmed by the beauty of the place and the good fishing, a pair of
fishhawks had built their nest in the top of a great spruce on the
mountain side. It was this pair of birds that came daily to circle over
my canoe, or over the rocks where I fished for chub, to see how I fared,
and to send back a cheery _Ch'wee! chip, ch'weeee!_ "good luck and good
fishing," as they wheeled away. It would take a good deal of argument
now to convince me that they did not at last recognize me as a
fellow-fisherman, and were not honestly interested in my methods and
success.

At first I went to the nest, not so much to study the fishhawks as to
catch fleeting glimpses of a shy, wild life of the woods, which is
hidden from most eyes. The fishing was good, and both birds were expert
fishermen. While the young were growing there was always an abundance in
the big nest on the spruce top. The overflow of this abundance, in the
shape of heads, bones and unwanted remnants, was cast over the sides of
the nest and furnished savory pickings for a score of hungry prowlers.
Mink came over from frog hunting in the brook, drawn by the good smell
in the air. Skunks lumbered down from the hill, with a curious, hollow,
bumping sound to announce their coming. Weasels, and one grizzly old
pine marten, too slow or rheumatic for successful tree hunting, glided
out of the underbrush and helped themselves without asking leave.
Wild-cats quarreled like fiends over the pickings; more than once I
heard them there screeching in the night. And one late afternoon, as I
lingered in my hiding among the rocks while the shadows deepened, a big
lucivee stole out of the bushes, as if ashamed of himself, and took to
nosing daintily among the fish bones.

It was his first appearance, evidently. He did not know that the feast
was free, but thought all the while that he was stealing somebody'