68 IN THE CAT-BIRD'S NOOK. 



song at his leisure, and had the roof to himself 

 as long as he chose to stay. 



No bird is more graceful than the cat-bird, 

 and in spite of his sober dress of slate-color and 

 black, none is more beautiful. His plumage 

 may be grave of hue, but it is like satin in 

 sheen and texture, and always in the most per- 

 fect order, for he takes the daintiest care of 

 himself. To see him make his toilet for the 

 night is well worth staying late and eating a 

 cold dinner. For an hour without ceasing will 

 he plume himself, carefully dressing each feather 

 many times over, combing his head with his 

 claws again and again, and shaking with vio- 

 lent effort every atom of the day's dust from 

 him. Then when all is arranged to his mind, 

 and every feather in place, he fluffs himself out 

 into a ball, draws one slate-colored foot up out 

 of sight into its feather pillow, and is ready to 

 say good-night and enjoy his repose. 



Another sight, for which one must lose his 

 breakfast — though it will be well exchanged 

 — is his bath. The cat-bird loves water, and 

 he plunges in, fluttering and spattering in a 

 way to delight the soul of a "hydromaniac," 

 wings and tail and head all hard at work, 

 sprinkling everything for yards around, till 

 when he steps out he looks like an animated 

 rag-bag, and the long, careful toilet of the even- 

 ing is repeated. 



