he bark to rest, then scrambling upward a few inches
farther, and so on till he reached the leaf, when he perched on its tiny
stem, and remained there as long as he was watched.

But to return to my place among the ferns. When I had been there some
time, silent and motionless, a catbird at my back, too happy to be long
still, would take courage and charm me with his wonderful whisper song,
an ecstatic performance which should disarm the most prejudiced of his
detractors. Occasionally, his mate, as I supposed, uttered warning
cries, and in deference to her feelings, as it appeared, his notes
dropped lower and lower, till I could scarcely hear them, though he was
not ten feet away. The song of the catbird is rarely appreciated;
probably because he seldom gives a "stage performance," but sings as he
goes about his work. In any momentary pause a few liquid notes bubble
out; on his way for food, a convenient fence post is a temptation to
stop a moment and utter a snatch of song. His manner is of itself a
charm, but there is really a wonderful variety in his strains. He has
not perhaps so fine an organ as his more celebrated relative, the
thrasher; he cannot, or at least he does not, usually produce so clear
and ringing a tone. Nor is his method the same; he does not so often
repeat himself, but varies as he sings, so that his aria is full of
surprises and unexpected turns. Doubtless, persons expert at finding
imitations of other birds' notes would discover some in his. But I am a
little skeptical on the subject of conscious "mocking." When the catbird
sings I hear only the catbird, and in the same way I take pleasure in
the song of thrasher or mockingbird, nor care whether any other may have
hit upon his exact combinations.

After the catbird, silence, broken only by the soft, indescribable
utterances that are at the same time the delight and the despair of the
bird-student. Some birds, upon entering this solitary retreat, announced
themselves by a single note, or call, as effectually as if they had sent
in a card, while others stole in, took quick and close observation, and
departed as quietly as they had come, unseen and unheard by clumsy human
senses. Often, indeed, have I wished for eyes to look behind me, where
it sometimes seems that everything most interesting takes place.

[Sidenote: _ANXIOUS DAYS IN CROWLAND._]

This secluded corner of the pasture proved to be a very popular nursery
with the feathered world. Catb