As befits a bird that possesses such a character as that of the Sharp-shinned Hawk, it is practically a voiceless bird and seldom utters a sound except when its nest is approached. At such times its cries have been described as like those of a flicker. BIRDS ON THE WING. In a picturesque little hill-town in eastern Massachusetts, where I was spending the summer, I had opportunities for studying birds, their language, and their customs. I shall not soon forget a remarkable sight in the heavens on the evening of August 26. I was suddenly attracted by an unusual twittering and calling of the birds, and, on looking out of a window, I saw a multitude of birds of various sizes, from the tiniest of hare-birds, or sparrows, to birds as large as robins, flying in all directions and filling the air, it seemed, with their songs and their soft little notes. Ah, I thought, the birds are having a gala day, a picnic, or a ball, or perhaps a regatta. They were sailing, soaring, whirling, diving, dipping, in intricate mazes, yet with a certain method that was both bewildering and charming. Perhaps they were trying their wings for their southern journey; perhaps they were merely taking a twilight constitutional en masse. The hour was a little past six o’clock. The southern sky was pale blue, overspread with soft, translucent clouds of opaline hues, paling and flushing—a most fascinating picture of itself, and a fine background for the bird parade. All around great trees rose in billowy masses of emerald green, maples and elms predominating; while, standing like tall sentinels, two giant Lombardy poplars rose above them all, looking straight up to the heavens. In pauses of the dance the birds seemed to sink into these bowers of green, and for a few moments no bird was seen. Then, from somewhere, one came sailing through the air, then two, then three, with little notes of command, as when the leader of an orchestra with his baton begins the overture, and then a general rush of wings and the whirling and wheeling and dipping and darting was again in full play. This display of bird maneuvring continued for about half an hour. I viewed it from a doorway where I could command the whole scene, which was enchanting and something which I had never before seen. I have not the presumption to suppose that it was a field-day review gotten up for my especial benefit; yet I enjoyed it quite as much as if it were. It is possible that they were swallows out on a foraging expedition, for the day before a shower of small, green flies swept through the air, lighting here and there and everywhere within its radius. Perhaps the birds had discovered a school of these flies in the air and took sudden advantage of the aerial sporting grounds. Whatever may have been the occasion, I wonder if such bird parades are often seen. M. D. Tolman. A SUNSET CLUB.