A MEMORY OF MY BOYHOOD, 



THERE were four of us that morning, 

 Nep, Ninky, the Pudgefudge and 

 myself. Nep is only a dog, but he makes 

 himself so much more conspicuous than 

 the rest of us that I place his name at the 

 head of the roll. 



We had started for a walk to Cedar Lake, 

 which was not far distant — in fact, its waters 

 wash the borders of our little farm; but 

 you must not think that there was nothing 

 new to be seen because we were near our 

 house. Those who go about with eyes and 

 ears open always see or hear something 

 new, and this time it was a small squawk 

 which first attracted our attention. It came 

 from a clump of briers near the edge of our 

 potato-patch. " O, there's a kitten !" said 

 the I'udgefudge. Nep heard the sound 

 well enough, but though he likes to chase 

 cats, he was not deceived, but merely waved 

 his great banner of a tail and ran across 

 the field in another direction. Ninky and 

 I heard it with pleasure, for it was one of 

 the more common notes of our old-time 

 friend the catbird, and we had never seen 

 one in northern Michigan. This bird had 

 followed the footsteps of the agriculturist, 

 thus repeating the history of his ancestors 

 of the last century along the valleys of the 

 Genesee and other streams of the State of 

 New York. 



"That's not a cat, Pudge, but a cAt-bird. 

 If you look closely into those bushes you 

 will see its long tail and slate-colored back 

 among the briers. You will not easily 

 frighten it away." So the Pudgefudge 

 looked, and soon exclaimed: "O ! there's a 

 nest, with five blue eggs. Isn't it jolly?" 

 The mother bird sat upon a rail at a short 

 distance, uttering at intervals her peculiar 

 note, while we approached and inspected 

 her housekeeping arrangements. The nest, 

 of twigs, was placed in the fork of a small 

 sapling, and was neatly lined with soft, 



fibrous roots. We were careful not to dis- 

 turb the little family; and as we continued 

 our walk, I told how it was that, formerly 

 an enemy of this vivacious songster. I had 

 long since become his friend and protector, 

 and that it gave me genuine pleasure to 

 hear his voice in my northern home. 



Among the many names of this bird is 

 that of Mh?ius, which means a mocker; for 

 our little friend has great powers of imita- 

 tion. He will mock the brown thrush and 

 the bobolink, and is said on good authority 

 to hiive been heard to imitate successfully 

 the strains of "Yankee Doodle." When 

 he tries to mock the bobolink, however, 

 and comes to the long trill of gushing mel- 

 ody which concludes its song, he is apt to 

 get tangled in the notes, and generally 

 winds up with a squawk. If the bobolinks 

 continue for the next ten years to disap- 

 pear as fast as they have done of late, the 

 catbird will have lost one of his worthiest 

 instructors. 



He is among the familiar birds which nest 

 about our homes, and though fond of fruit 

 as well as insects, his many social qualities 

 should commend themselves to the good 

 will of all. You probably know by this 

 time a fact of which I was ignorant in my 

 youth — that without the birds we should 

 have no fruit for ourselves, and we can well 

 afford to spare them a little in considera- 

 tion of their services. If, instead of shy- 

 ing stones at the catbird because he is 

 tame, we give a little time to the study of 

 his songs and habits, we shall find that we 

 could better spare some other birds of more 

 pretentious plumage than this sociable little 

 mimic. 



My earliest recollections of the catbird 

 are also those of my first warpath, or rather 

 shooting excursion. It was away back in 

 the "forties," on the last Wednesday of 

 May, which was then known in Massachu- 



