stant hill,
looking, as he flew, like a fluttering bit of black-and-white patchwork.
On further acquaintance, I found this to be the regular habit of the
bird: to come to his nest and feed his mate thoroughly, and then to take
himself away for about half an hour, though later he fell to lingering
and watching me.

Left thus alone and well fed, madam was quiet for some time, perhaps ten
minutes, and then she went out for exercise or for lunch; flying
directly to the ground near the tree, and returning in a few minutes to
her place.

[Sidenote: _FEEDING HIS MATE._]

On one occasion I saw what sort of food the shrike collected. He had
alighted on the wire fence, apparently to inquire into my business,
when his eyes fell upon something desirable--from his point of view.
Instantly he dropped to the road, picked up a black object, worm or
beetle, an inch long, and took it at once to his mate. Sometimes he
carried his prey to a post, and beat it a while before presenting it to
her; and one evening, somewhat later than usual, he was found
industriously gleaning food from the hosts of the air, flying up in the
manner of a flycatcher, and to all appearance with perfect success.

The loggerhead shrike is one of our most beautiful birds, clear
blue-gray above, and snowy white below. His black wings are elegantly
marked with white, and his black tail, when spread like a fan, as he
wheels to alight, showing broad tips and outer feathers of white, is one
of his most striking marks. He is a little smaller than a robin, and his
mate is of the same size, and as finely dressed as he. The resemblance
he is said to bear to the mockingbird I have never been able to see. His
form, his size, his coloring, and his movements are, to my sight, in
every way different from those of the southern bird.

The manners of the shrike are as fine as one would expect from so
distinguished-looking a personage, dignified, reposeful, and unusually
silent. I have seen him, once or twice, flirt his half-opened tail and
jerk his wings, but he rarely showed even so much impatience or
restlessness. He sat on the fence and regarded me, or he drove away an
intrusive neighbor, with the same calm and serious air with which he did
everything. I have heard of pranks and fantastic performances, of
strange, uncouth, and absurd cries, and of course it is impossible to
say what vagaries he might have indulged in if he had thought himself
unobserved, but in many hours a