home, and in the hedging bushes of an 

 adjoining field, that it develops its best 

 qualities, — lets itself out, — so to speak. 

 The male is undoubtedly a mimic, when 

 he so desires, but he has an individual 

 and most delightful song, filled with un- 

 expected turns and buoyant melody. The 

 length of the song varies greatly, some- 

 times lasting almost uninterruptedly for 

 an hour. One strain is used for an in- 

 troduction and constant refrain, 'Prut! 

 Prut! Coquillicot!' The ejaculation, 

 'prut I prut!' turns into shrill zeay! when 

 he is really alarmed or angry. 



"His song is only second in its collo- 

 quial variety to that of the brown 

 thrasher, and it is sometimes difficult for 

 a moment to distinguish between the two. 

 He is particularly successful in imitating 

 the whistle of the chat (itself a mimic and 

 ventriloquist), and has several times lured 

 me by it through bushes and briars, only 

 to mock at me and call : Hey ! Victory ! 

 in my face." 



Mrs. Wright quotes Mr. Ellwanger, 

 near whose window one sang early every 

 morning: "Nothing could be more de- 



lightful than his opening matin song, 

 begun in dulcet undertone ; did I not 

 know from experience his long-drawn 

 crescendo and the frenzy of the finale — a 

 perfect Hungarian 'Czardus' !" And 

 she concludes with: "It seems strange 

 that there should be any difference of 

 opinion about this merry, friendly bird. 

 It simply proves the wit of Nature, to set 

 this merry, rippling jester, this whirl- 

 wind of delightful mockery, as a foil, a 

 companion to the thrushes with their spir- 

 itual melodies." 



If it is indeed true that "the great poets 

 have ever been the best interpreters of the 

 songs of birds," the assumption follows 

 that, knowing themselves the master 

 poet-minds of ornithology, there is 

 method in the Catbird's mocking mad- 

 ness, and that, voluntary transcribers of 

 the elusive melodies of those thrushes 

 that steal away from human propinquity, 

 they, like the Ages, 



"Unpersuaded, pass along 

 The dulcet message." 



Juliette A. Owen. 



THE CATBIRD. 



Wert thou Court Jester, dearest bird, 



Or Minstrel singing 

 At nod and beck of some gay king; 



Thy fresh notes ringing 

 As clear and sweet as honey-dew, 



But harsh and whining 

 When vexed in soul, thy lay is changed 



To sharp repining? 



Well-masked in garb of monkish grey, 



No color flaring; 

 Yet still thy silver bells ring out 



In sudden daring! 

 Thy nest is rough and woven loose, 



But holds a treasure, 

 Hid close in bush or thicket green, 



Thy chiefest pleasure ! 



Coquelicot! Is this thy name, 



Dear woodland rover? 

 Thou'rt minstrel, wit, a courtier fine, 



A banished lover! 



■Ella F. Mosby 



188 



