The Western Chat 



at least, to dissociate the two birds in thought. Both love the thickets; 

 both excel in song; both plague their neighbors by mimicry; and both alike 

 are dearly provoking bundles of contradictions. The Chat is, perhaps, the 

 greater buffoon, as he is certainly the more handsomely dressed of the 

 two. Beyond this we must consider him on his own merits. 



Ten to one you know him, if at all, only as a voice, a tricksy bush- 

 whacker of song, an elusive mystery of the thicket; or you have uncon- 

 sciously ascribed his productions to half a dozen mythical birds at once. 

 But look more closely. It is well worth the quest to be able to resolve 

 this genius of roguery. Be assured he knows you well enough, by sight, 

 for he does not poke and pry and spy for nothing, in the intervals of song. 

 He has still the proverbial curiosity of woman. Seat yourself in the 

 thicket, and when you hear the mellow, saucy Kook, with its whistled 

 vowel, bounded by consonants barely thought of, imitate it. You will 

 have the bird up in arms at once. Kwook, returns the bird, starting to- 

 ward you. Repeat it, and you have won. The bird scents a rival and he 

 will leave no stem unclasped but he finds him. As the bird alternately 

 squints and stares from the brush, note the rich warbler olive of his upper- 

 parts, the gorgeous yellow of the throat and breast, the white brow-stripe 

 and the malar dash, offset by black and darker olive. It is a warbler in 

 color-pattern, a Yellow-throat done larger, but waggish, furtive, impudent, 

 and resourceful beyond any other of his kind. 



The full song of the Chat is usually delivered from some elevation, a 

 solitary tree rearing itself above dense cover. The music almost defies 

 analysis, for it is full of surprises, vocal somersaults, and whimsy turns. 

 Its cadence is ragtime, and its richest phrases are punctuated by flippant 

 jests and droll parentheses. Even in the tree-top the singer clings closely 

 to the protecting greenery, whence he pitches headlong into the thicket at 

 the slightest intimation of approach. 



The love song of the Chat, the so-called "dropping song," is one of the 

 choicest of avian comedies, for it is acted as well as sung. The performer 

 flings himself into mid-air, flutters upward for an instant with head up- 

 raised and legs abjectly dangling, then slowly sinks on hovering wing, with 

 tail swinging up and down like a mad pump-handle, — Punch, as Cupid, 

 smitten with the mortal sickness. And all this while the zany pours out 

 a flood of tumultuous and heart-rending song. He manages to recover as 

 he nears the brush, and his fiancee evidently approves this sort of buf- 

 foonery. 



The Chat is a skilled mimic. I have traced the notes of such diverse 

 species as Bullock Oriole, Slender-billed Nuthatch, and Magpie to his door. 

 Once, down on the Rio Grande, we rapped on a vine-covered Cottonwood 

 stump to dislodge a Flicker that had been shrieking Klyak at us for some 



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