THE CATBIRD 73 



done by the robins and thrushes. In other words, 

 he seems to sing from some outward motive, and 

 not from inward joyousness. He is a good versi- 

 fier, but not a great poet. Vigorous, rapid, copi- 

 ous, not without fine touches, but destitute of 

 any high, serene melody, his performance, like 

 that of Thoreau's squirrel, always implies a spec- 

 tator. 



There is a certain air and polish about his 

 strain, however, like that in the vivacious con- 

 versation of a well-bred lady of the world, that 

 commands respect. His parental instinct, also, is 

 very strong, and that simple structure of dead 

 twigs and dry grass is the centre of much anx- 

 ious solicitude. Not long since, while strolling 

 through the woods, my attention was attracted 

 to a small densely-grown swamp, hedged in with 

 eglantine, brambles, and the everlasting smilax, 

 from which proceeded loud cries of distress and 

 alarm, indicating that some terrible calamity was 

 threatening my sombre-colored minstrel. On ef- 

 fecting an entrance, which, however, was not ac- 

 complished till I had doffed coat and hat, so as 

 to diminish the surface exposed to the thorns and 

 brambles, and, looking around me from a square 

 yard of terra firma, I found myself the spectator 

 of a loathsome yet fascinating scene. Three or 

 four yards from me was the nest, beneath which, 



