ling among the dry leaves as if some larger bird were also among
them. Then I heard one of the goldfinches cry out as if in distress,
when the whole flock of them started up in alarm, and, circling around,
settled in the tops of the larger trees. I continued my scrutiny of the
bushes, when I saw a large bird, with some object in its beak, hopping
along on a low branch near the ground. It disappeared from my sight for
a few moments, then came up through the undergrowth into the top of a
young maple where some of the finches had alighted, and I beheld the
shrike. The little birds avoided him and flew about the tree, their
pursuer following them with the motions of his head and body as if he
would fain arrest them by his murderous gaze. The birds did not utter
the cry or make the demonstration of alarm they usually do on the
appearance of a hawk, but chirruped and called and flew about in a half
wondering, half bewildered manner. As they flew farther along the line
of trees the shrike followed them as if bent on further captures. I then
made my way around to see what the shrike had caught, and what he had
done with his prey. As I approached the bushes I saw the shrike
hastening back. I read his intentions at once. Seeing my movements, he
had returned for his game. But I was too quick for him, and he got up
out of the brush and flew away from the locality. On some twigs in the
thickest part of the bushes I found his victim,--a goldfinch. It was not
impaled upon a thorn, but was carefully disposed upon some horizontal
twigs,--laid upon the shelf, so to speak. It was as warm as in life, and
its plumage was unruffled. On examining it I found a large bruise or
break in the skin on the back of the neck, at the base of the skull.
Here the bandit had no doubt gripped the bird with his strong beak. The
shrike's bloodthirstiness was seen in the fact that he did not stop to
devour his prey, but went in quest of more, as if opening a market of
goldfinches. The thicket was his shambles, and if not interrupted, he
might have had a fine display of titbits in a short time.

The shrike is called a butcher from his habit of sticking his meat upon
hooks and points; further than that, he is a butcher because he devours
but a trifle of what he slays.

THE SCREECH OWL

At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I come
suddenly upon a brood of screech owls, full grown, sitting together upon
a dry, moss-draped limb, but