The Western Mockingbird 
mounting guard above 
upon the cottage chim¬ 
ney, he has made us 
partners in interest. 
His cause is ours, and 
woe betide him who 
dares impugn the 
musical virtues of the 
American Mockingbird. 
He has touched our 
honor. 
The Nightingale 
sings only in a northern 
springtime—or so they 
tell us. With the 
Mockingbird it is eternal 
Spring. If bird-song 
expresses, as we hold, 
joy in life, rather than 
merely a passing desire 
to capture a mate, then 
is the Mockingbird the 
most joyful of birds. 
He is always at it, winter 
and summer. Or if in 
the springtime his songs 
are a little more earnest, 
a little more passionate, he is not more partial than the rest of us. Spring 
is the joy-time par excellence, and if one sings in the autumn, is it not 
because spring has been entrapped and carried over in the heart? Or if 
in winter, this is doubtless, also, because spring is coming. 
Song is the Mocker’s raison d'etre. It is his own true love, his passion, 
his obsession, no less than his trade. Not content with his own inspira¬ 
tions, masterly, varied, and abundant as these are, the singer lays under 
tribute everything else that sings, or yodels, or squawks withal. The 
plaintive notes of a Say’s Phoebe and the regal scream of the Western 
Redtail interest him alike. No other bird-song is too foreign, too intri¬ 
cate, or too delicate for his own rendition. Of the passing migrants he 
takes toll, no less than of his familiar neighbors. Two Mockers that I 
heard in Arizona, and these a hundred miles apart, had each preserved 
the recollection of the exquisite gushing song of the Lincoln Sparrow 
(. Melospiza lincolni). These mimics, too, had been unusually favored, 
Taken in Los Angeles County 
AN ORPHEAN INFANT 
Photo by the Author 
719 
