in the vicinity the boy who drives
the village cows. Two heads only were visible over the edge. But the
boy, with a boy's genius for investigation, brought a fence rail, put it
under the branch, and shook them up a little. They only huddled closer.
At my suggestion he gave a more vigorous shake, and a baby climbed from
the nest, a foot or two above, then flew as well as anybody clear lip
into the top of the tree. Such a pretty baby! breast white as snow,
lovely black crescent through the eyes, and the dearest little tail
imaginable, half an inch long, and flirted up and down continually.

"The other bird--for there were but two--ran up the twigs for two feet,
but quickly returned to the nest, and would not leave it again, though
we could see its wondering eyes look out and peer at us. Both were gone
the next day (twelve days old). And thus endeth the butcher episode."

Now also must end--for a time--my study of this interesting bird. But I
shall not forget it, and I shall seek occasion to study it again and
again, till I have proved, if I find it true, that the shrike deserves
better of us than the character we have given him; that he is not nearly
"so black as he is painted."

IV.

THE WITCHING WREN.

"There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine."

The song of the winter wren is something that must be heard to be
appreciated; words can no more describe it than they can paint the sky
at evening, or translate the babble of the mountain brook.

"Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood bird's peal and cry?"

This witching carol, one of nature's most alluring bits of music, fell
upon my ear for the first time one memorable morning in June. It was a
true siren-strain. We forgot, my comrade and I, what we were seeking in
the woods. The junco family, in their snug cave among the roots, so
interesting to us but now, might all fly away; the oven-bird, in the
little hollow beside the path, might finish her lace-lined domicile, and
the shy tanager conclude to occupy the nest on the living arch from
which we had frightened her,--all without our being there to see. For
the moment we cared for but one thing,--to follow that "wandering
voice," to see that singer.

[Sidenote: _THE DOG BECOMES INTERESTED._]

Silently we arose, folded our camp-stools, and started. We wished to
move without sound; but the woods were dry, and every dead stick snapped
with a crack; every fallen