headed rascal who never in his life had a 

 qualm of conscience on account of his base 

 deeds. His sedentary quiet serves him 

 two ways: while digesting one of my 

 greenlets he is surveying opportunities 

 for his next brutality. With my glass I 

 take leisurely looks at him, particularly 

 noting the steadfast, darkling stare of his 

 eye, a typically predatory orb. 



He is king of the garden, a tyrant rude 

 and sanguinary — killing, now for food, 

 and then for fun, hanging his victims on 

 the spikes of the trees and leaving them 

 to dry into mummies as light as old 

 leaves. In my realistic moments I credit 

 him with much good done in impaling 

 grasshoppers and young mice, moths, and 

 caterpillars ; but most of the time he passes 

 in my imagination for nothing but a Nero 

 whose whole nature is a puddle of blood- 

 stained cruelty never stirred by a breath 

 of tenderness or sympathy. 



The shrike is, indeed, a bird that has 



caused me a great deal of pleasant trouble. 



The three, or, speaking conservatively, the 



two, species inhabiting our country do not 



9 129 



