OUR SOUTHERN MOCKER. 259 



imitator quickly appropriates, without even the grace of an ac- 

 knowledgment. 



The mocking bird, like all aristocrats, has no humility in his 

 " make-up," and at times this disposition makes him most ex- 

 asperatingly overbearing — as, for instance, when choice fruit is 

 slowly ripening and the contest begins, to ascertain whether the 

 landowner or Monsieur Mockey shall collect the harvest ! Firmly 

 believing himself to be lord of all, the premises resound with the 

 queer, fierce scoldings which he bestows upon all usurpers, and 

 our little gray-coated songster shows a pugnaciousness that is 

 surprising. The sound of a mocker's scolding resembles the sud- 

 den splitting of long strips of heavy silk, and, as he has a habit of 

 leaving his voice all along the path behind him as he flies angrily 

 away, fretting and disputing at every step, the sound is so fierce, 

 so long drawn out, and so far extending, that one involuntarily 

 sniffs the air for the sulphurous odor which should, by right, 

 accompany so savage a train of ugliness. 



The housekeeping and family cares of a pair of mockers are 

 wearing to themselves and to the entire neighborhood, and attract- 

 ive as the bird may be in his adult years, as enfant terrible, in all 

 the agonies of the preparatory and freshman year, he is a nuisance 

 of the most tiresome type. As soon as the little ones are coaxed 

 from the nest for their first outing the trouble begins, and the ex- 

 ertion necessary to find sufficient food to fill those never-satisfied, 

 gasping, shrieking throats reduces both parent birds to gaunt and 

 peevish little gray ghosts before the month is out. Indeed, the 

 very sight of this practical, unpoetical side of real life would 

 make many a student of the much-discussed question, " Is mar- 

 riage a failure ? " pause and cry out mentally, " Blessed be single 

 bliss ! " 



After some four or five weeks of tribulation, these baby mock- 

 ers — such as escape the sharp beak of the murderous shrike or 

 butcher bird — enter the sophomore class, instinctively assume tall 

 hats, and begin to feed themselves. In spite of the annoyance of 

 their tiresome shrill piping, almost incessant from dawn until 

 sunset, silent only from necessity when their throats are being 

 stuffed with the hard-earned food, they are a funny sight as they 

 sit perched in a row upon a fence-rail, with their tiny feathers 

 fluffed out until the little fellows resemble soft, gray puffballs. 

 There, occasionally flying to some neighboring low-growing shrub 

 for a change, with wings fluttering unceasingly and with heads 

 thrown back to give greater voice room, they will sit for hours, 

 their shrieks arising to squeals of indescribable ecstasy when the 

 old birds approach with the coveted worm. Should a cat chance 

 to stray into their neighborhood, it is very comical to see them all 

 shake, or rather shudder, their tiny wings violently, as they alter 



