IN THE CAT-BIRD'S NOOK. 71 



confidently expecting to see the low nest I 

 knew so well. No nest was there. Then I 

 searched the neighbormg shrubs, and even the 

 grass around, but no sign of his home could I 

 find, while the bird, who had watched and fol- 

 lowed me, plainly chuckled in a way that said, 

 " Humph ! you missed it, didn't you ? " and I 

 firmly believe that the saucy fellow ate the 

 worm himself, and went through all that pre- 

 tense of mystery to mislead me and rebuke my 

 prying curiosity. 



The singing of the cat-bird is as character- 

 istic as anything else about him. No song of 

 his ever comes from the top of a tall tree, where 

 the robin delights to pour out his inspiring 

 notes, but out of the deepest shade of the thick- 

 est shrub his music salutes the ear. It is the 

 most charming of songs, exquisite in quality, 

 and of compass and variety. His common chirp 

 as he goes about in the bushes is soft as rain- 

 drops plashing into a quiet lake, and his low 

 chatter to his friends has the same liquid char- 

 acter. But he has harsher tones ; he has a 

 sharp " tut, tut," like the robin, and he has the 

 cry from which he is named, which at a little 

 distance somewhat resembles the " mew " of a 

 melancholy cat, but closer sounds more like the 

 cry of a young baby. Then, also, when his anger 

 is roused, and he flies furiously almost in one's 



