328 Bird -Lore 



and occasions none of the enthusiasm that the brilliant plumage of the Scarlet 

 Tanager or the clear notes of the Wood Thrush arouse. And yet, when we 

 stop to consider him, there is something very dear to us in the homely presence 

 and the sometimes harsh voice of the Catbird. The confidence that he seems 

 to show toward man by establishing himself about the house, in dooryard, 

 garden, or orchard thicket, his apparent interest in everything that is going 

 on, even though it border on iniquisitiveness, and his song, low-pitched and 

 erratic though it be, all endear him to us. 



Every old garden has somewhere about it a shady thicket of lilacs, mock- 

 orange, or some similar shrubbery in a niche by the back porch, perhaps, or 

 behind the greenhouse, or over in the corner where the fences come together; 

 and it is with such a spot that the Catbird is most closely associated in my mind. 

 His song comes bubbling in through the open window, and let us but step 

 outside and stroll down the garden path, and the Catbird is at once close at 

 hand, full of curiosity and nervous anxiety, uttering at frequent intervals 

 that harsh, irritating, complaining cry. Following along from bush to bush, 

 inquisitive and persistent, he seems bent on knowing the business of the in- 

 truder, and anxious to enter his protest against the intrusion. When the 

 house cat selects some comfortable spot in the old garden for an afternoon nap, 

 the Catbird is immediately a. hand, and will mount guard by the hour with a 

 continuous fire of harsh, monotonous, though utterly futile protests, so long 

 as puss remains on the field. Perhaps, however, he may have good reason 

 for his anxiety, for back in the heart of that shrubbery his nest is no doubt 

 located, lodged firmly among the branches, built of twigs, dead leaves and 

 plant-stems, and neatly lined with fine rootlets, holding perhaps four deep 

 blue eggs which his mate is patiently incubating. The number of eggs varies 

 sometimes to three or five, and about the middle of May we find the clutch 

 complete and incubation begun; though there is usually, I think, another 

 brood raised later on in June. 



As the visitor passes out of his domain, the Catbird is back again among 

 the lilac bushes and, casting all anxiety to the winds, he ruffies out his 

 plumage, droops his wings, and there gurgles forth that peculiar medley of 

 liquid notes and harsh tones that go to make up the Catbird song. In the 

 character of his song he shows his relationship to the Mocking-bird and the 

 Brown Thrasher; but, while the three songs have something in common, they 

 possess great individuality, and cannot be confused. During his vocal per- 

 formance, the Catbird strikes one as almost ridiculous. The notes follow one 

 another so unexpectedly, and the whole pose of the bird, his earnestness and 

 entire satisfaction, seem somehow out of keeping with the result. But there 

 is much that is pleasing, much melody, in the Catbird's song if we but give 

 it consideration. It is not a loud song; not one that commands our attention, 

 and not in a class with songs of Thrushes and Grosbeaks or the best Sparrow 

 songs, but it is well suited to its surroundings, to the cool shade of deep shrub- 



