on in the woods are no less alarming to the feathered tenants of
the bushes than the cry of fire or murder in the street is to the
inhabitants of a large city. On such occasion of alarm and
consternation, the Catbird is first to make his appearance, not single
but sometimes half a dozen at a time, flying from different quarters to
the spot. At this time those who are disposed to play on his feelings
may almost throw him into a fit, his emotion and agitation are so great
at what he supposes to be the distressful cries of his young. He hurries
backward and forward, with hanging wings, open mouth, calling out louder
and faster, and actually screaming with distress, until he appears
hoarse with his exertions. He attempts no offensive means, but he wails,
he implores, in the most pathetic terms with which nature has supplied
him, and with an agony of feeling which is truly affecting. At any other
season the most perfect imitations have no effect whatever on him."

The Catbird is a courageous little creature, and in defense of its young
it is so bold that it will contrive to drive away any snake that may
approach its nest, snakes being its special aversion. His voice is
mellow and rich, and is a compound of many of the gentle trills and
sweet undulations of our various woodland choristers, delivered with
apparent caution, and with all the attention and softness necessary to
enable the performer to please the ear of his mate. Each cadence passes
on without faltering and you are sure to recognize the song he so
sweetly imitates. While they are are all good singers, occasionally
there is one which excels all his neighbors, as is frequently the case
among canaries.

The Catbird builds in syringa bushes, and other shrubs. In New England
he is best known as a garden bird. Mabel Osgood Wright, in "Birdcraft,"
says: "I have found it nesting in all sorts of places, from an alder
bush, overhanging a lonely brook, to a scrub apple in an open field,
never in deep woods, and it is only in its garden home, and in the
hedging bushes of an adjoining field, that it develops its best
qualities--'lets itself out,' so to speak. The Catbirds in the garden
are so tame that they will frequently perch on the edge of the hammock
in which I am sitting, and when I move they only hop away a few feet
with a little flutter. The male is undoubtedly a mocker, when he so
desires, but he has an individual and most delightful song, filled with
unexpected turn