Orpheus. The great Audubon used the name Orpheus in 1839. In 1847 the 

 name was again changed, this time to mimus, the mocker, showing that the people 

 had recognized a new quality in the song. In 1855 some prosy, Greek-minded 

 student thought to make the name fit still more precisely, and changed it to the 

 unmusical galeoscoptes, the imitator of the cat. 



We regret, however, that the appropriate name Orpheus, standing for the 

 catbird's real major character as a singer, should give way to one standing only 

 for an occasional minor note of alarm. 



As the copses come into leafage in May catbirds and thrashers fill the air 

 with their delightful song. Now the ear may distinguish between these two 

 famous singers. We listen to the trills and runs and vocal gymnastics. 



We close our eyes and give the ears the whole enjoyment. How similar 

 the strains ! And yet there is a difference ; gradually the ear makes its analysis. 

 Repetition, yes, the notes that come from the top spray of the tree come in 

 couplets, while those that come, from the midst of the thicket do not repeat. 

 The poet is right ; the thrasher calls from his lookout : — 



'Shuck it, shuck it ; sow it, sow it. 

 Plough it, plough it; hoe it, hoe it." 



And again : — 



"That's the wise thrush, he sings each song tzvice over, 

 Lest you should think he never could recapture 

 The first fine careless rapture." 



By his song the thrasher classes himself with the old Italian Masters, and 

 gains effect by repetition, while the catbird is more Wagnerian, and keeps closer 

 to the simple aria. 



The appearance of refinement that comes from the neatness and smoothness 

 of the catbird's well groomed plumage is supported by its bearing. Close 

 acquaintance leads to an admiration of its grace of movement, its alertness, and, 

 above all, its self-possession. Retirement, even seclusion, is a part of its nature, 

 but not timidity. This the picnicker in grove or park discovers with no little 

 pleasure. He flips a bit of cake out toward a catbird and enjoys its alertness. 

 Apparently occupied with its own concerns in the bush, it comes promptly toward 

 the offering, nearer and nearer, not boldly, like a beggar, and yet not timidly. 

 It does not appear to be taking chances. There is no halting, no apparent weigh- 

 ing of the probabilities of getting the cake and escaping with life, as with the 

 robin. Up it comes to within a yard or so, takes the cake and retires with 

 dignified precipitation. 



The catbird knows his rights, and knowing, dares maintain. The old birds 

 are valiant defenders of the nest, especially when the young are making that 

 first perilous journey into the big world beyond its rim. Then they can outdo 

 even the robin and jay in their solicitous racket. 



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