138 LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY 



victim, a goldfinch. It was not impaled upon a 

 thorn, but was carefully disposed upon some horizon- 

 tal twigs, laid upon the shelf, so to speak. It was 

 as warm as in life, and its plumage was unruffled. 

 On examining it I found a large bruise or break in 

 the skin on the back of the neck, at the base of the 

 skull. Here the bandit had no doubt griped the 

 bird with his strong beak. The shrike's blood thirs- 

 tiness was seen in the fact that it did not stop to 

 devour its prey, but went in quest of more, as if 

 opening a market of goldfinches. The thicket was 

 his shambles, and if not interrupted he might have 

 had a fine display of tidbits in a short time. 



The shrike is called a butcher from his habit of 

 sticking his meat upon hooks and points; further 

 than that, he is a butcher because he devours but a 

 trifle of what he slays. 



A few days before, I had witnessed another little 

 scene in which the shrike was the chief actor. A 

 chipmunk had his den in the side of the terrace 

 above the garden, and spent the mornings laying in 

 a store of corn which he stole from a field ten or 

 twelve rods away. In traversing about half this 

 distance, the little poacher was exposed; the first 

 cover going from his den was a large maple, where 

 he always brought up and took a survey of the scene. 

 I would see him spinning along toward the maple, 

 then from it by an easy stage to the fence adjoin- 

 ing the corn; then back again with his booty. One 

 morning I paused to watch him more at my leisure. 

 He came up out of his retreat and cocked himself 



