se. Sometimes, when madam
left her nest for refreshment, she would sweep by a bird who happened to
be on the tree, thus making him fly, but she never followed or showed
any special interest in him. Whatever other shrikes may be or do, at
least this pair, and the three or four others who visited them, were
amiable with their neighbors, small as well as great.

If bravery is a virtue,--and why is it not, in feathers as well as in
broadcloth?--the shrike should stand high in our estimation, for he does
not hesitate to attack and make his prey animals which few birds of his
size dare touch; not only mice, but creatures as well armed as gophers
and others.

I was particularly desirous to hear the song of the shrike. He is not
classed with singing birds, and is not, I think, usually credited with
being musical. But Thoreau speaks of his song, and others mention it.
John Burroughs tells of a shrike singing in his vicinity in winter, "a
crude broken warble,"--"saluting the sun as a robin might have done."
Winter, indeed, seems to be his chosen time for singing, and an
ornithologist in St. Albans says that in that season he sings by the
hour in the streets of the town.

[Sidenote: _THE SHRIKE'S SONG._]

Therefore did I sit unobtrusively on the near side of the thorn-tree,
leaving the birds their screen, to encourage them to sing; and at last I
had my reward. One very hot day I did not reach my place under the maple
till after nine o'clock, and I found the shrike, as I frequently did, on
the fence, on guard. In a few moments, when I had become quiet, he went
to the nest, and sitting there on the edge, hidden from my distinct
view, he condescended to sing, a low, sweet song, truly musical, though
simple in construction, being merely a single clear note followed by a
trill several tones higher. After delivering this attractive little aria
a dozen or more times, he flew out of the tree and over my head, and
sang no more.

My curiosity about his song being thus gratified, I decided to seek a
better post of observation; for I hoped every day to find that sitting
was over, and the young had appeared. I therefore walked farther up the
road, quite past the tree, and took my seat beside the fence, where I
could see the whole nest perfectly. The birds at once recognized that
all hope of concealment was over, and became much more wary. The singer
came less frequently, and was received in silence. Also he took me under
strict surveilla