G. N. Shrike, Butcher 141 



to be a bully as well as a butcher. I have never seen any 

 evidence of this trait in its character. It does not seem to 

 care for what some small human souls consider the delight of 

 cowing weaker vessels. When the shrike gives chase to its 

 feathered quarry it gives chase for the sole purpose of obtain- 

 ing food. While the bird is not a bully in the sense in which 

 I have written, it displays at times the cruelty of a fiend. It 

 has apparently something of the cat in its nature. It delights 

 to play with its prey after it has been seized, and by one swift 

 stroke reduced to a state of helplessness. 



Every morning during the month of February, 1898, a 

 shrike came to a tree directly in front of my window on Pear- 

 son Street, Chicago. The locality abounded in sparrows, 

 and it was for that reason the shrike was such a constant 

 visitor. The bird paid no attention to the faces at the win- 

 dow, and made its excursions for victims in plain view. The 

 shrike is not the most skilled hunter in the world. About 

 three out of four of his quests are bootless, but as it makes 

 many of them it never lacks for a meal. The Pearson Street 

 shrike one day rounded the corner of the building on its way 

 to its favorite perch, and encountering a sparrow midway 

 struck it down in full flight. The shrike carried its struggling 

 victim to the usual tree. There it drilled a hole in the spar- 

 row's skull and then allowed the suffering, quivering creature 

 to fall toward the ground. The butcher followed with a 

 swoop much like that of a hawk, and catching its prey once 

 more, bore it aloft and then dropped it again as it seemed for 

 the very enjoyment of witnessing suffering. Finally when 

 the sparrow had fallen for the third time, it reached the 

 ground before the shrike could reseize it. The victim had 

 strength enough to flutter into a small hole in a snow bank, 



