3884 GRAY LADY AND THE BIRDS 
his fresh fruit for breakfast, and be the only thing with 
anything catlike about it on my premises !”’ 
THE CATBIRD 
He sits on a branch of yon blossoming bush, 
This madcap cousin of Robin and Thrush, 
And sings without ceasing the whole morning long 
Now wild, now tender, the wayward song 
That flows from his soft, gray, fluttering throat. 
But often he stops in his sweetest note, 
And, shaking a flower from the blossoming bough, 
Drawls out, ‘‘ Mi-ew, mi-ou!”’ 
