THE CATBIRD. 255 
THOSE who hold either a good or a bad opinion of the Catbird are one- 
sided in their judgment. ‘Two, and not less than two, opinions are possible 
of one and the same bird. He is both imp and angel, a “feathered Mephis- 
topheles”’ and ‘‘a heavenly singer.” But this is far from saying that the bird 
lives a double life in the sense ordinarily understood, for in the same minute 
he is grave, gay, pensive and clownish. Nature made him both a wag and a 
poet, and it is no wonder if the the roguishness and high philosophy become 
inextricably entangled. One moment he steps forth before you as sleek as Beau 
Brummel, graceful, polished, equal-eyed; then he cocks his head to one 
side and squints at you like a thief; next he hangs his head, droops wings 
and tail, and looks like a dog being lectured for killing sheep ;—Presto, change! 
the bird pulls himself up to an extravagant height and with exaggerated gruff- 
ness, croaks out, “Who are you?” ‘Then without waiting for an answer to 
his impudent question, the rascal sneaks off through the bushes, hugging every 
teather close to the body, delivering a running fire of cat-calls, squawks and ex- 
pressions of contempt. There is no accounting for him; he is an irrepressible— 
and a genius. 
The Catbird is at home anywhere in bushes and shrubbery. River banks 
are lined with them, and swampy tangles are thronged with them, but they also 
exhibit a decided preference for the vicinage of man and, if allowed to, will 
irequent the plum trees and raspberry bushes. ‘They help themselves pretty 
freely to the fruit of the latter, but their services in insect-eating compensate 
for their keep a hundred-fold. Nests are placed almost anywhere at moderate 
heights. but thickety places are preferred, and the Carolina rosebush is 
acknowledged to be the ideal spot. The birds exhibit the greatest distress 
when their nest is disturbed, and the entire neighborhood is aroused to expres- 
sions of sympathy by their pitiful cries. 
Comparing the scolding and call notes of a Catbird with the mewing of a 
cat has perhaps been a little overdone, but the likeness is strong enough to 
lodge in the mind and to fasten the bird’s “trivial name” upon it forever. Be- 
sides a mellow phut, phut in the bush, the bird has an aggravating mec-a-a, 
and a petulant call note which is nothing less than Ma-a-ry. Cautious to a 
degree and timid, the bird is oftener heard in the depths of the thicket than 
elsewhere, but he sometimes mounts the tree-top, and the opening “Phut, phut, 
coquillicot”— as Mrs. Blanchan hears it—is the promise of a treat. 
Generalizations are apt to be inadequate when applied to singers of such 
brilliant and varied gifts as the Catbird’s. It would be impertinent to say: 
Homo sapiens has a cultivated voice and produces music of the highest order. 
Some of us do and some of us do not. Similarly some Catbirds are “self- 
conscious and affected,” “pause after each phrase to mark its effect upon the 
audience,” ete. Some lack originality, feeling, are incapable of sustained 
effort, cannot imitate other birds, ete. | But some Catbirds are among the most 
