158 BIRDS OF FIELD. FOREST AND PARK 



the catcall of this bird when he is disturbed, even 

 in the slightest degree. You feel like hurling 

 something at him that will send him beyond 

 ear shot and you are quite disgusted with him. 

 But if you curb your impatience and, calming 

 your ruffled feelings, remain quiet for a time in 

 the thicket where his nest is, he will forget your 

 presence and you will be quite charmed with 

 his performance. 



His lay is rather low, but melodious, and 

 some of his notes are exceedingly fine. You may 

 think there is a lack of spirit about it, as though 

 the bird were not prompted to sing so much 

 from the joyousness of his heart as from a desire 

 to have some part in the chorus about him. 

 His song is a strange mixture of the notes, calls 

 and songs of other birds, rendered in his own, 

 inimitable way. He is a very successful mocker, 

 reproducing the notes of Thrush, Sparrow, 

 Wren, or Warbler in so perfect a manner as to 

 quite deceive one for the instant. But listen a 

 moment longer and he gives himself away, for, 

 after all, he has an individuality all his own 

 which he cannot long conceal. And when it is 

 over you wonder what it was all about, for 

 there seems to be a lack of theme, of motif, as 

 it were; yet there are parts which are so wild 

 and sweet as to quite delight one. 



The Catbird is a citizen of the garden, the 

 shrubbery of the parks, and the alder and hazel 

 bushes that overgrow the river bank. When I 

 wish to spend an hour in his society I quietly 

 paddle along the shore close to the bushes, and 

 I always find him. In June his nest is found 



