The fish-hawk is not an eagle. Mountain heights and clouds he never scales; fish are more in his way, he scales them--possibly regarding them as scaly-wags. For my bird is pious; a stern conservator is he of the public morals. Last Sunday a frivolous fish was playing not far from the beach, and Dr. Hawk went out and stopped him. 'Tis fun to watch him at that sort of work--stopping play--though somehow it does not seem to amuse the fish much. Up in the air he poises pensively, hanging on hushed wings as though listening for sounds--maybe a fish's. By and by he hears a herring--is he hard of herring, think you? Then down he drops and soon has a Herring Safe. (Send me something, manufacturers, immediately.) Does he tear his prey from limb to limb? No, he merely sails away through the blue ether--how happy can he be with either!--till the limb whereon his own nest is built is reached. Does the herring enjoy that sort of riding, think you? Quite as much, I should say, as one does hack-driving. From my point of view, the hawk is but the hackman of the air. Sympathize with the fish? Not much. Nor would you if you heard the pitiful cry the hawk sets up the moment he finds that his claws are tangled in a fish's back. Home he flies to seek domestic consolation, uttering the while the weeping cry of a grieved child; there are tears in his voice, so you know the fish must be hurting him. The idea that a hawk can't fly over the water of an afternoon without some malicious fish jumping up and trying to bite him! If a fish wants to cross the water safely, let him take a Fulton ferryboat for it. There he will find a sign reading: "No Peddling or Hawking allowed in this cabin." Strange that hawking should be so sternly prohibited on boats which are mainly patronized by Brooklynites chronically afflicted with catarrh!