Dusky, Gray, and Slate-colored 



North of Delaware this commonest of Southern birds is all 

 too rarely seen outside of cages, yet even in midwinter it is not 

 unknown in Central Park, New York. This is the angel that 

 it is said the catbird was before he fell from grace. Slim, neat, 

 graceful, imitative, amusing, with a rich, tender song that only 

 the thrush can hope to rival, and with an instinctive preference 

 for the society of man, it is little wonder he is a favorite, caged 

 or free. He is a most devoted parent, too, when the four or six 

 speckled green eggs have produced as many mouths to be sup- 

 plied with insects and berries. 



In the Connecticut Valley, where many mocking-birds' nests 

 have been found, year after year, they are all seen near the 

 ground, and without exception are loosely, poorly constructed 

 affairs of leaves, feathers, grass, and even rags. 



With all his virtues, it must be added, however, that this 

 charming bird is a sad tease. There is no sound, whether made 

 by bird or beast about him, that he cannot imitate so clearly as 

 to deceive every one but himself. Very rarely can you find a 

 mocking-bird without intelligence and mischief enough to appre- 

 ciate his ventriloquism. In Sidney Lanier's college note-book 

 was found written this reflection: "A poet is the mocking-bird 

 of the spiritual universe. In him are collected all the individual 

 songs of all individual natures." Later in life, with the same 

 thought in mind, he referred to the bird as "yon slim Shakespeare 

 on the tree." His exquisite stanzas, "To Our Mocking-bird," 

 exalt the singer with the immortals : 



Trillets of humor, shrewdest whistle-wit 

 Contralto cadences of grave desire, 

 Such as from off the passionate Indian pyre 

 Drift down through sandal-odored flames that split 

 About the slim young widow, who doth sit 

 And sing above, midnights of tone entire, 

 Tissues of moonlight, shot with songs of fire ; 

 Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite 

 Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave 

 And trickling down the beak, discourses brave 

 Of serious matter that no man may guess, 

 Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress 

 All these but now within the house we heard : 

 O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird? 



