THE CATBIRD. 



He sits on a branch of yon blossoming tree, 



This mad-cap cousin of Robin and Thrush, 

 And sings without ceasing the whole morning long ; 



Now wild, now tender, the wayward song 

 That flows from his soft, gray, fluttering throat ; 



But often he stops in his sweetest note, 

 And shaking a flower from the blossoming bough, 

 Drawls out, " Mi-eu, mi-ow ! " 



Edith M. Thomas. 



TTOW often it happens that people are known by 

 A ^ their least agreeable trait. The harsh catcall, 

 "Mieu, miow! " is the least musical of the many notes 

 . the Catbird utters. By his own song he is w^orthy a 

 place with singers of highest rank. It is this that 

 exasperates us so ; but is it so much more strange 

 that he does not always employ his best powers than 

 that we do not live up to our best all the time ? 



The Catbird is the Mocking Bird of the north. 

 May and June are the months when his song seems 

 to come from the heart. Later in the season he 

 amuses himself with a variety of vocal entertain- 

 ments. 



If you can read into his little picture, — slate color 

 for the upper parts, lighter slate and gray for under 



