140 LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY 



me fire a stone at him," said he, and jumping out 

 of the wagon he pulled off his mittens, and fumbled 

 about for a stone. Having found one to his liking, 

 with great earnestness and deliberation he let drive. 

 The bird was in more danger than I had imagined, 

 for he escaped only by a hair's breadth; a guiltless 

 bird like the robin or sparrow would surely have 

 been slain; the missile grazed the spot where the 

 shrike sat, and cut the ends of his wings as he darted 

 behind the branch. We could see that the murdered 

 bird had been brained, as its head hung down to- 

 ward us. 



The shrike is not a summer bird with us in the 

 Northern States, but mainly a fall and winter one; 

 in summer he goes farther north. I see him most 

 frequently in November and December. I recall a 

 morning during the former month that was singularly 

 clear and motionless; the air was like a great drum. 

 Apparently every sound within the compass of the 

 horizon was distinctly heard. The explosions back 

 in the cement quarries ten miles away smote the hol- 

 low and reverberating air like giant fists. Just as 

 the sun first showed his fiery brow above the hori- 

 zon, a gun was discharged over the river. On the 

 instant a shrike, perched on the topmost spray of a 

 maple above the house, set up a loud, harsh call or 

 whistle, suggestive of certain notes of the blue jay. 

 The note presently became a crude, broken warble. 

 Even this scalper of the innocents had music in his 

 soul on such a morning. He saluted the sun as a 

 robin might have done. After he had finished he 

 flew away toward the east. 



