THE WAY THE SHRIKE CARRIES HIMSELF 549 



the Shrike destroys in a state of nature are either captured at 

 a single dash, or caught in open chase, and killed with a blow 

 of the beak. They are then devoured upon the spot, or 

 carried to the "cemetery" and stuck upon a thorn, as I shall 

 presently describe with more particularity. 



As if conscious of his prowess, the Shrike shows little fear in 

 the presence of man. Under some circumstances, indeed, I 

 have found a Shrike so wild that my endeavors to get a shot 

 were unavailing, but the very opposite is oftenest the case. 

 You may enter the thicket the Shrike has chosen as his hunt- 

 ing-ground, and the bird will regard you with contempt, return- 

 ing your regard with a gaze as steady and unflinching as if he 

 were the better man of the two and knew it. At such a time, 

 you will have a good opportunity to observe the easy noncha- 

 lant air with which he asserts himself. For all that the Shrike 

 is such a gallant marauder, it must not be inferred that he is 

 always on the war-path, intent on prodigies of valor. The 

 doughtiest knights lay aside their armor at rimes, and the 

 Shrike is fond of his ease in the intervals of his piratical enter- 

 prises. At such times, you may observe him lounging about 

 with his hands in his pockets, so to speak, and nothing on 

 his mind, when, as you approach, he will turn his head toward 

 you with languid curiosity, just for a moment, and then dismiss 

 you from further consideration. Sometimes you will see him 

 ready for business, scanning the neighborhood closely from 

 his watch-tower on the topmost twig of some bush or sapling, 

 where he stands stiffly, bolt upright, like a soldier on dress 

 parade, ready to move at a moment's warning. He makes a 

 rather imposing picture just then in his uniform of French 

 gray with black and white facings, which fits him "like a 

 dream": the next instant — whish! he is gone, and the piteous 

 cry of the Sparrow in yonder bush tells the rest of the story. 



A good deal of the Shrike's business, however, is neither bril- 

 liant nor romantic. The green sward below his perch harbors 

 a great many field-mice of diifei ent kinds, according to the lay of 

 the land, and he has nothing to do but drop quietly down upon 

 these little innocents. At certain seasons of the year, more- 

 over, the fields swarm with grasshoppers, of which the Shrike 

 is very fond, as he is also of spiders, beetles, caterpillars, and, in 

 fact, almost any insect. In July and August, I have frequently 

 seen Shrikes skipping about in old weedy fields, apparently 

 amusing themselves; but I generally found, on watching them 



