It was in the middle of April, 1883. A man who was rowing on one of those lakes east of the Highlands, in the northern part of Westchester County, espied a large fish-hawk sitting on a dead limb near the water. The man, having his gun with him, rowed over toward the hawk, and when in range fired at him flying. The wounded bird fell, hit on the outer joint of the left wing. With the help of his companion the man managed to bring him home. In less than a week, the boy of the house fed him with fish out of his own hands, and the hawk did not attempt to claw him. One day the boy wanted to see how many pounds of fish the hawk would eat. He caught seven suckers weighing a pound and a half each. The hawk ate six, one after another, and took the seventh, but refused to eat it until half an hour afterward. What an enormous appetite he had! Later on in the summer, the boy would take him to the water to wash. He did it just as a canary does in his china bath. The boy would take him and put him on the side of the boat and row him around, and the hawk would sit there, taking in everything, as well as the summer visitors, who were taking him in. The hawk was so tame that his keeper could smooth his head and chuck him under his beak and the hawk would only flop his wings and whistle when the boy turned, as though delighted with what the boy did. This creature measured five feet eleven inches from tip to tip of the wings, and came to his death in October of the same year, by getting caught in the string by which he was fastened, greatly to the sorrow of his keeper who cared for him. The bird is now stuffed and in a friend's room in New York City.
Yours truly,
S. F. K. E. G.
Cincinnati, O.
Dear St. Nicholas: I thought I would write to you to say what so many of the other girls and boys who take you have already said: "That I love every one of your stories and can hardly wait until the 25th of the month comes, to read you." I have taken you two years and would not be without you one single month. I live in the dirty city of Cincinnati, but I have a great deal of fun any way.
We have had two snowstorms this winter, but by the time the snow has lain on the ground three or four days it is so black that I actually believe that people who come from the country would not know it was snow unless they were told.
I will now close, hoping to have the pleasure of seeing this letter printed.
I remain, your constant reader,
Grace S. C.
P. S. I forgot to say I was thirteen years old and have a brother nine years old, who thinks the St. Nicholas "a dandy," as he expresses it.