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 ? 
82 
