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I The Great Gray Slirike. g 



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When other birds have southward flown, 

 And winter winds so bleak and chill, 



Through naked branches sadly moan, 

 The Great Gray Shrike is with us still. 



He braves the danger of the plain, 

 'Mid the desolate wastes of snow 



And in the woods the feathered slain 

 His deeds of cruel warfare show. 



The tree-top is his turret high 



Where he watches his thoughtless prey. 

 And sallies forth with practiced eye. 



Relentless to pursue and slay. 



The sparrow searching in the snow. 



Cheerful over his frugal meal. 

 Gives one despairing note of woe 



As he feels that fierce warriors steel. 



No knight that ever harness wore, 



And charged the foe with lance in rest, 



What e'er the emblem that he bore. 

 Showed greater courage in his quest. 



I fain would speak of him with praise. 

 Respect his courage and his skill. 



But pity for the one he slays, 



Has ever kept those praises still. 



Hattie Washburn. 



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