A WOODLAND TRAGEDY 73 



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of slaughter. And observe that each actor in this 

 drama of death is as careless as to the life he 

 sacrifices and the pain he causes as the angler 

 is careless as to the feelings of the minnow he 

 impales upon his barbed hook, or the sportsman 

 is careless as to the feelings of the happy birds 

 he brings down with his cartridges. 



Nevertheless, when we come across one page 

 in this vast mute tragedy of sentient life among 

 the calm surroundings of a quiet wood, it always 

 surprises us afresh ; and that is why I have 

 chosen as a good illustrative case of this phase 

 in nature my wicked old friend the shrike, or 

 butcher-bird. 



Externally, I do not know that there is any- 

 thing about his personal appearance which might 

 lead you to suppose he was much wickeder or 

 fiercer than the remainder of his family. In 

 costume and colouring he is quiet and demure, 

 not to say almost quakerish. To be sure, there 

 is a lurking gleam in the corner of his eye, when 

 you get a close view of him, which betokens a 

 crafty and cruel disposition ; while something 

 about the peculiar curl at the tip of his beak 

 seems to suggest a lordly indifference to suffer- 

 ing in others. But on the whole he is a hypo- 

 crite in his outer dress ; you would hardly suspect 

 him at first sight of the high crimes and mis- 

 demeanours of which I admit him to be really 

 guilty. Still, you do not know a thrush till you 

 have seen him eat worms alive slowly, a mouthful 

 at a time, pulling them out of their holes and 



