The kingbird is the best dressed member of the family, but he is a
braggart; and, though always snubbing his neighbors, is an arrant
coward, and shows the white feather at the slightest display of pluck
in his antagonist. I have seen him turn tail to a swallow, and have
known the little pewee in question to whip him beautifully. From the
great-crested to the little green flycatcher, their ways and general
habits are the same. Slow in flying from point to point, they yet have
a wonderful quickness, and snap up the fleetest insects with little
apparent effort. There is a constant play of quick, nervous movements
underneath their outer show of calmness and stolidity. They do not
scour the limbs and trees like the warblers, but, perched upon the
middle branches, wait, like true hunters, for the game to come along.
There is often a very audible snap of the beak as they seize their
prey.
The wood pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests your
attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also in the
deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated strains.
Its relative, the phoebe-bird, builds an exquisite nest of moss on the
side of some shelving cliff or overhanging rock.
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