The northern shrike, when it is attempting to capture a mouse, or a small 

 bird that has taken refuge in a bush, hovers over the quarry almost precisely 

 after the manner of the sparrow-hawk. There are few more fascinating sights 

 in nature than that of the bird with its body absolutely motionless, but with its 

 wings moving with the rapidity of the blades of an electric fan. Sharply out- 

 lined against the sky, it fixes the attention and rouses an interest that leaves 

 little room for sympathy with the intended victim that one knows is cowering 

 below. A mouse in the open has little chance for escape from the clutches of 

 the hovering shrike. Birds, however, which have wisdom enough to stay in the 

 bush and trust to its shelter rather than to launch, out into open flight, are more 

 than apt to escape with their lives. In February last I saw two shrike-pursued 

 English sparrows take to the cover of a vine-covered lilac shrub. They sought 

 a place well near the roots. While flying they had shown every symptom of fear 

 and were making a better pace than I had ever seen one of their tribe make 

 before. The shrike brought itself up sharply in midair directly over the lilac, 

 and there it hovered on light wing and looked longingly downward through the 

 interlacing stems at the sparrows. It paid no heed to its human observer who 

 was standing within a few feet and who, to his amazement, saw an utter absence 

 of any appearance of fear on the part of the sparrows. They apparently knew 

 that the shrike could not strike them down because of the intervening branches. 

 They must have known also that owing to the comparative clumsiness of their 

 pursuer when making its way on foot through and along twigs and limbs, they 

 could easily elude him if he made an attempt at capture after that manner. 

 Finally the shrike forsook the tip of the lilac and began working its way down- 

 ward along the outer edge of the shrub. When it had approached to a point as 

 near as the sparrows thought was comfortable, they shifted their position in the 

 bush. The shrike saw that the quest was useless unless he could start them to 

 flight. He tried it. but they were too cunning for him, and he at last gave 

 up the chase, the progress of which actually seemed to humiliate him. He flew 

 afar off', where perhaps the prospects of dinner were better. 



I once saw a goldfinch in winter plumage escape a northern shrike by taking 

 a flight directly at the zenith. The shrike followed the dainty little tidbit far up, 

 until the larger bird was only a speck and the little one had disappeared entirely. 

 The shrike apparently could neither stand the pace nor the altitude, and the 

 watchers, with whom the goldfinch was the favorite in the race, rejoiced with 

 the winner. 



Fine feathers do not always make fine birds. 



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