Great Northern Shrike is no mean vocal- 

 ist. Its notes are alluringly gentle, and, 

 to paraphrase a somewhat famous quota- 

 tion, "It sings and sings and is a villain 

 still." 



There is one compensation beyond the 

 general interest of the thing for the stu- 

 dent who has to endure the sight of the 

 sufferings of the shrike's victims in order 

 to get an adequate idea of its conduct of 

 life. The redeeming thing is found in 

 the fact that in the winter time the great 

 majority of the shrike's victims are the 

 pestilential English sparrows, whom 

 every bird lover would be willing to see 

 sacrificed to make a shrike's supper, 

 though he might regret the attending 

 pain pangs. 



My own observations of the shrike 

 have been limited to the city of Chicago 

 and to the fields immediately beyond its 

 walls. For those unfamiliar with the 

 subject it may be best to say that in the 

 winter season the shrike is abundant in 

 the parks of the great smoky city by the 

 lake, and not infrequently it invades the 

 pulsing business heart of the town. No 

 one ever saw the placidity of the shrike 

 disturbed in the least. It will perch on 

 the top of a small tree and never move 

 so much as a feather, barring its tail, 

 which is in well nigh constant motion, 

 when the clanging electric cars rush by 

 or when the passing wagons shake its 

 perch to the foundation. 



The Great Northern Shrike reaches the 

 city from its habitat beyond the Canada 

 line about the first of November. For 

 four years in succession I saw my first 

 Northern Shrike of the season on No- 

 vember first, a day set down in the 

 Church Calendar for the commemoration 

 of "All Saints." It is eminently in keep- 

 ing with the hypocritical character of 

 Mr. Shrike, sinner that he is, to put in 

 an appearance on so holy a day. From 

 the time of his coming until late March 

 and sometimes well into April, the shrike 

 remains an urban resident and harries 

 the sparrow tribe to its heart's content. 



As far as my own observation goes the 

 Great Northern Shrike in winter does 

 not put very much food in cold storage. 

 I have never seen many victims of the 

 bird's rapacity impaled upon thorns. Per- 

 haps I should qualify this statement a bit 

 by saying that I have never seen many 



victims hanging up in one place. I have 

 watched carefully something like a score 

 of the birds, and while every one occa- 

 sionally hung up one of its victims, there 

 was nothing approaching the "general 

 storehouse" of food, so often described. 

 It is my belief that this habit of impaling 

 its prey upon thorns or of hanging it by 

 the neck in a crotch is one that is con- 

 fined largely to the summer season, and 

 especially to the nesting period. 



The Great Northern Shrike has been 

 said by some writers to be a bully as well 

 as a butcher. I have never seen any evi- 

 dence of this trait in his character. He 

 does not seem to care for what some 

 small human souls consider the delight 

 of cowing weaker vessels. When the 

 shrike gives chase to its feathered quarry 

 it gives chase for the sole purpose of ob- 

 taining food. While the bird is not a 

 bully in the sense in which I have written, 

 it displays at times the cruelty of a fiend. 

 It has apparently something of the cat 

 in its nature. It delights to play with its 

 prey after it has been seized, and by one 

 swift stroke reduce it to a state of help- 

 lessness. 



Every morning during the month of 

 February, 1898, a shrike came to a tree 

 directly in front of my window on Pear- 

 son street, in Chicago. The locality 

 abounded in sparrows and it was for that 

 reason the shrike was such a constant 

 visitor. The bird paid no attention to 

 the faces at the window, and made its 

 excursions for victims in plain view. The 

 shrike is not the most skilled hunter in 

 the world. About three out of four of his 

 quests are bootless, but as he makes many 

 of them he never lacks for a meal. The 

 Pearson street shrike one day rounded 

 the corner of the building on its way to 

 its favorite perch, and encountering a 

 sparrow midway struck it down in full 

 flight. The shrike carried its struggling 

 victim to the usual tree. There it drilled 

 a hole in the sparrow's skull and then 

 allowed the suffering, quivering creature 

 to fall toward the ground. The butcher 

 followed with a swoop much like that of 

 a hawk and, catching its prey once more, 

 bore it aloft and then dropped it again 

 as it seemed for the very enjoyment of 

 witnessing suffering. Finally when the 

 sparrow had fallen for the third time it 

 reached the ground before the shrike 



