cold, and that he was wishing mightily he could pull his feathered topknot down 

 over his ears like a hood. Once halcyon darted from his perching-place and 

 poised in the air over the ice, as it is his custom to do when about to strike his 

 prey. For a moment I actually feared that the bird was deceived by a bit of 

 transparent ice through which he could see a fish and was about to dash himself 

 against the hard surface and end his fishing days forever. He was wiser than 

 we knew, however, and after poising for a while, as though it were only to exer- 

 cise his wings, he flew back to his dead-limb perch. 



Just then we heard the note of a shrike. The bird was on his watch-tower 

 at the tiptop of an elm. He seemed to be taking something of an interest in the 

 kingfisher. It was the great northern shrike, or butcher-bird, and it is barely 

 possible — his summer range being in the far North — that never before had he 

 met one of the tribe to which belonged the belted knight below. Finally the 

 shrike flew to the willow and took a place just above the kingfisher's head. The 

 shrike is a bird of prey, but he never strikes quarry of the fisher's size. Halcyon 

 finally became a little restive under the gaze of his visitor, who had cocked his 

 head on one side and was staring with all his might. The shrike dropped to a 

 lower limb. He was within a foot of the kingfisher's head. This was too much 

 of an impertinence, and the bigger bird left his perch, but as he did so he 

 sprang that watchman's rattle of his full in the face of the shrike. That weird 

 cry of the waterside is enough to unsettle even stronger nerves than those of a 

 butcher, and the frightened shrike turned tail and fied. The kingfisher, who 

 probably had noted the effect of his voice, made for the northern end of the 

 pond, twisting and retwisting his rattle in a sort of glee as he scurried along. 



Into Lincoln Park on that March morning had come the first song sparrow 

 of the year. There is never a daylight hour in all the seasons when this little 

 fellow, conscious of the melody within him, does not seem willing to give it 

 voice. The song sparrow is no silk-and-satin singer. He comes into the scene 

 in plain homespun, but the listener loses all thought of the garb in the sweetness 

 of the strain. 



The sparrow's song was marred by a harsh note that came from the branches 

 of the only pine tree that then stood on the little peninsula which runs from the 

 north into the park pond. It was the voice of the bronzed grackle. This bird, 

 better known as the crow blackbird, is sable enough in color on a dark day, but 

 when the sun strikes him his garb is of beaten gold and Tyrian purple. We found 

 the grackle, and found him all alone. That day was the first time of meeting 

 with this blackbird individual whose acquaintance I enjoyed I firmly believe for 

 five successive years. Crow blackbirds are fond of company and it is seldom 

 that you find one separated from its fellows. This Lincoln Park bird, a male 

 in fine plumage, stayed about the pond and the animal house for ten days before 

 any of his kindred from the south joined him. He found the tame ducks' quarters 

 a splendid foraging-place, and there he picked up every day much more than his 

 share of corn. Finally, when the bird was joined by his comrades, I of course 



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