A NORTHERN NIGHTINGALE 



power. His aversion to singing in public is 

 well known to his admirers, although he can 

 never be said to be without his notes. In 

 some of the earliest " Hoosier " dialect ever 

 written, Edward Eggleston celebrates this 

 peculiarity as follows: 



" The cat-bird poorty nigh splits his throat 



Ef nobody's thar to see; 

 The cat-bird poorty nigh splits his throat, 

 But ef I says : * Sing out, green coat,' 



'Why, I can't, and I shan't,' says he." 



But in the throat of this most modestly plu- 

 maged bird there is a perfect marvel of mel- 

 ody, and when the spirit moves him, and then 

 only, does he sing. What a pity that some 

 of the poets do not wait for their inspiration 

 like the cat-bird! 



The cat-bird is a brush-bird, a frequenter 

 of bushes and thickets. Not for him the 

 lofty perch of the robin, the tip-tilting pose 

 of the golden-winged woodpecker, the far 

 flight of the blackbird. Like a true-hearted 

 minstrel he is a modest singer who seeks in 

 shady retirement a spot to pour out his music. 

 While the bobolink spills bubbles of joy in 

 the midst of sun-thrilled days the cat-bird 

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