G. N. Shrike, Butcher 143 



empty clawed. Five times it made the attempt to capture 

 the creeper, and every time the little bird eluded its enemy 

 by a quick retreat. It was a veritable game of hide and seek, 

 amusing and interesting for the spectator, but to the birds a 

 game of life and death. Life won. I ever have believed 

 thoroughly that the creeper thought out the problem of escape 

 for itself. The last time the shrike went back to its perch 

 the creeper did not show round the trunk again, but instead 

 flew away, keeping the bole of the tree between itself and its 

 foe. It reached a place of safety unseen. The shrike 

 watched for the quarry to reappear. In a few moments it 

 grew impatient and flew down and completely circled the 

 tree. Then, seemingly knowing that it had been fooled, it 

 left the place in disgust. 



Of the boldness of the great northern shrike there can be 

 no question. It allows man to approach within a few feet 

 and looks him in the eye with a certain haughty defiance, 

 showing no trace of nervousness, save a flirting of the tail, 

 which is a characteristic of the bird and in no way attribu- 

 table to fear or uneasiness. One morning early in March, 

 when the migration had just started, I saw two shrikes on the 

 grass in the very center of the ball-ground at the south end 

 of Lincoln Park. They were engaged in a pitched battle, 

 and went for each other much after the manner of game 

 cocks. The feathers literally flew. I looked at them through 

 a powerful field-glass and saw a small dark object on the grass 

 at the very point of their fighting. Then I knew that the 

 battle was being waged for the possession of an unfortunate 

 bird victim. The birds kept up the fight for fully two min- 

 utes. Then, being anxious to find out just what the dead 

 bird was which had given rise to the row, I walked rapidly 



