Birds of a Smoky City n 



he could see a fish and was about to dash himself against the 

 hard surface and end his fishing days forever. He was wiser 

 than we knew, however, and after poising for a while, as 

 though it were only to exercise his wings, he flew back to his 

 dead-limb perch. 



Just then we heard the note of a shrike. The bird was 

 on his watch-tower at the tiptop of an elm. He seemed to 

 be taking something of an interest in the kingfisher. It was 

 the great northern shrike, or butcher-bird, and it is barely 

 possible his summer range being in the far North that 

 never before had he met one of the tribe to which belonged 

 the belted knight below. Finally the shrike flew to the wil- 

 low and took a place just above the kingfisher's head. The 

 shrike is a bird of prey, but he never strikes quarry of the 

 fisher's size. Halcyon finally became a little restive under 

 the gaze of his visitor, who had cocked his head on one side 

 and was staring with all his might. The shrike dropped to a 

 lower limb. He was within a foot of the kingfisher's head. 

 This was too much of an impertinence, and the bigger bird 

 left his perch, but as he did so he sprang that watchman's 

 rattle of his full in the face of the shrike. That weird cry of 

 the waterside is enough to unsettle even stronger nerves than 

 those of a butcher, and the frightened shrike turned tail and 

 fled. The kingfisher, who probably had noted the effect of 

 his voice, made for the northern end of the pond, twisting 

 and retwisting his rattle in a sort of glee as he scurried along. 



Into Lincoln Park on that March morning had come the 

 first song sparrow of the year. There is never a daylight 

 hour in all the seasons when this little fellow, conscious of the 

 melody within him, does not seem willing to give it voice. 

 The song sparrow is no silk-and-satin singer. He comes into 



