MR. CHAT, THE PUNCHINELLO. 



A TRUE STORY. 



If Mr. Chat were an ordinary per- 

 former he would doubtless select a spot 

 in the center of the village square; 

 he would put up his little stage and his 

 drop-curtain and would send small boys 

 all through the village with his flaming 

 posters: 



ATTENTION, EVERY ONE ! 

 This Afternoon — in the Village Square 

 At Two O'clock, 

 Mr. Yellow-Breasted Chat will give 

 one of his 



REMARKABLE PERFORMANCES 



Mr. Chat is acknowledged by all to 

 be the best imitator, the most gifted 

 singer, the finest elocutionist, the clev- 

 erest ventriloquist, the greatest athlete 

 in all bird-dom. 



MR. CHAT 



Orator, Singer, Gymnast and 

 Punchinello ! 

 Don't fail to see him ! 



and by two o'clock the village square 

 would be alive with people, and after 

 the show the dimes would rattle into 

 the hat and no one would go away disap- 

 pointed, as Mr. Chat's poster would be 

 nearer the truth than most posters of 

 its kind. 



All this if Mr. Chat were an ordinary 

 performer, but he is not. His perform- 

 ance is so far ahead of anything that 

 was ever advertised on a poster, that 

 there are not dimes enough in all the 

 world to buy it. You may set a day 

 for him and invite all your friends, or 

 you may take your friends and go seek 

 him in his own haunts; you may try to 

 coax, hire, threaten; you may do every- 

 thing in your power; but Mr. Chat is a 

 happy creature of inspiration, and makes 

 dates with nobody. 



When he will, he will — 



You may depend on't; 

 And when he won't, he won't — 



And there's an end on't! 



His only tent is the blue sky; his 

 stage-setting a jungle of trees near a 

 swamp; his stage a thick bough near 

 the top of a tree; his curtain the leaves 

 of a white birch, or willow, or butternut; 

 his orchestra and curtain-raiserthe wind r 

 and his audience his wife sitting pa- 

 tiently on the eggs in her nest, and — 

 you, if you belong to Nature's elect and 

 happen to be near the swamp at that 

 moment and have the kind of eyes that 

 really see and the kind of ears that 

 really hear. Mrs. Chat can command 

 the performance with one little bird 

 sigh. You could not buy it with the 

 wealth of the world. After the enter- 

 tainment is over, Mr. Chat drives his 

 wife from the nest and takes her place 

 on the eggs while she flies out over the 

 tree-tops for a little outing. Not many 

 bird husbands are so considerate. 



Once upon a time (you see the story 

 is just beginning now) I happened to 

 find myself in a pasture; not a tame, 

 every-day, green pasture tacked on one 

 end of a nice smooth farm — not at all! 

 but a pasture on top of a high hill, with 

 beautiful fields stretching out below it, 

 and all pink and white with laurel. The 

 cows, who, they say, do not care either 

 for laurel or scenery, may not have 

 liked this pasture, but I did. So when 

 I had climbed the bars and seated my- 

 self on the top one to view the country, 

 I saw at the far edge of the pasture, a 

 jungle of trees, and I liked it still more, 

 and determined to explore it. On the 

 way I flushed a brown thrasher in a 

 laurel bush, and he flew into the jungle. 

 There seemed to be but one bird sing- 

 ing in all the neighborhood, and this 

 song which was a peculiar one, lured 

 me into the thicket. On I went very 

 cautiously till the sound seemed to 

 be directly overhead. I paused and 

 listened and peered into the tree tops. 



"Caw-caw!" cried the bird harshly. 



"Nothing but an old crow," said I in 

 disgust. 



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