UNSCIENTIFIC NOTIONS OF THE CATBIRD 59 



better than we do him. He is at least a civilized bird, if he 

 does haug by the eyelids on good society; if he is denied the 

 front door, the area is open to him: he may peep in at the 

 basement window, and see the way up the back stairs. His 

 eyes and ears are open ; his wits are sharp ; what he knows, 

 he knows, and will tell if he chooses. His domesticity is large ; 

 he likes us well enough to stay with us, yet he keeps his eye 

 on us. His is the prose of daily life, with all its petty concerns, 

 as read by the lower classes ; the poetry we are left to discover. 

 Explain him as we may, the Catbird is inseparable from 

 home and homely things; he reflects, as he is reflected in, 

 domestic life. The associations, it is true, are of an humble 

 sort; but they are just as strong as those which link us with 

 the trusty Eobin, the social Swallow, the delicious Bluebird, or 

 the elegant Oriole. Let it be the humble country-home of toil, 

 or the luxurious mansion where wealth is lavished on the gar- 

 den in either case, the Catbird claims the rights of squatter 

 sovereignty. He flirts saucily across the well-worn path that 

 leads to the well, and sips the water that collects in the shallow 

 depression upon the flag-stone. Down in the tangle of the moist 

 dell, where stands the spring-house, with its cool, crisp atmos- 

 phere, redolent of buttery savor, where the trickling water is 

 perpetual, he loiters at ease, and from the heart of the green- 

 brier makes bold advances to the milkmaid who brings the 

 brimming bowls. In the pasture beyond, he waits for the boy 

 who comes whistling after the cows, and follows him home by 

 the blackberry road that lies along the zigzag fence, challeng- 

 ing the carelessly thrown stone he has learned to dodge with 

 ease. He joins the berrying parties fresh from school, soliciting 

 a game of hide-and-seek, and laughs at the mishaps that never 

 fail when children try the brier patch. Along the hedge row, 

 he glides with short easy flights to gain the evergreen coppice 

 that shades a corner of the lawn, where he pauses to watch the 

 old gardener trimming the boxwood, or rolling the gravel 

 walk, or making the flower bed, wondering why some people 

 will take so much trouble when everything is nice enough 

 already. Ever restless and inquisitive, he makes for the well- 

 known arbor, to see what may be going on there. What he 

 discovers is certainly none of his business: the rustic seat is 

 occupied ; the old, old play is in rehearsal; and at sight of the 

 blushing cheeks that respond to passionate words, the very 

 roses on the trellis hang their envious heads. This spectacle 



