March 14, 1903.J 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
207 
dividual and follows it to its death, just as a hawk selects 
a pigeon in a flock and pursues it with unswerving 
pertinacity, no matter how it turns and doubles and tries 
to lose itself among its comrades. The blue snow bird 
and chickadees, who are Avell acquainted with its blood- 
thirsty rapacity, sound the note of alarm at its coming, 
and dart into a thicket or some other cover in their efforts 
to escape from it; but the occasion is rare, indeed, when 
it is completely balked of capturing a victim. 
The first living shrike that I ever saw puzzled me con- 
siderably; at first glance I thought, on aeccount of the 
color of its plumage, that it was a mockingbird that had 
either escaped from confinement or was very strangely 
out of its proper latitude; this was in December, near 
Boston, when there were very few small birds to be 
seen. 
I watched the shrike and followed it as it moved from 
one tree to another, it being evidently unwilling to permit 
my near approach, but not seeming to fear me or to re- 
gard me with much distrust. Its mode of flight, wliich 
Tesembled very much that of one of the small hawks, to- 
gether with its peculiarly colored head and hooked bill, 
enabled me to identify it very quickly, and in a few 
moments I had an opportunity of observing the manner 
in which it follows and kills its prey; a small flock of 
snow birds appearing on the scene and one of them being 
pounced upon and killed in a most expeditious way. For- 
tunately I had a gun with me, and I knocked the shrike 
over as it was on the point of tearing its prey and de- 
vouring it. 
On several occasions I have seen a shrike capture small 
birds and in every instance the \nctim was seized by the 
sharp-pointed, hooked and toothed beak of the marauder, 
and not in its talons, as described by Merriam, although 
these are very sharp and cruel. On one occasion I saw 
a shrike dart into a flock of tree sparrows and kill three 
of them before they could escape ; and it seems character- 
istic of this bird to secure more than enough food for its 
present wants. Its habit of suspending small birds, mice, 
and insects on thorns and small, sharp-pointed twigs is 
well known. This is done, I am inclined to think, not be- 
cause, as some writet^s assert, that it will not eat its food 
when freshly killed, but rather to have this food stored 
for future need. We see many other birds with this same 
habit of providing for coming wants ; particularly the 
biuc jay, nuthatches and some of the woodpeckers. In 
cpptivity the butcher bird is surly and unapproachable. It 
resents every attempt that is made to become friendly 
with it, and shows a thoroughly fierce and implacable 
spirit to the end. I know of hardly any other bird or 
animal that is so completely untamable. Even the most 
savage hawks and carnivorous animals at times unbend 
and show less of their savage nature to those who con- 
stantly attend them. 
I have had rather exceptional opportunities for ob- 
serving them as caged specimens and have found nothing 
in their nature that is interesting or attractive. 
A number of years ago I wing-tipped a fine male bird, 
and after removing the wounded member I placed it in a 
large wire cage and hung it to a hook in the upper casing 
of a window, the top of which was opened slightly to pro- 
vide the bird with an abundance of fresh cold air which 
seemed necessary to its existence. There I allowed it to 
remain, feeding it occasionally with bits of meat, small 
birds and mice. I affixed to the bars of the cage a num- 
ber of wire hooks arranged somewhat similarly to the 
barbs on a wire fence. Singularly enough the shrike ab- 
solutely refused to touch one of the dead birds, and only 
when hunger absolutely compelled it would it eat any of 
the mice. I hardly believed that it was starving itself 
out of sheer ugliness, and continued to feed it with as 
grfeat a variety of food as I could procure. I hung one or 
two of the mice and birds on the sharp barbs in imitation 
of its methods in a state of nature, but they were un- 
touched. At length the idea occurred to me that per- 
haps the shrike preferred to eat only prey of its own 
killing, and acting on this thought I stretched some fine 
wire netting around the bottom of the cage bars to the 
height of four or five inches and then turned several mice 
that I had trapped into the cage. 
The moment they began to run about the shrike seemed 
to awake from its surly mood and become restless and ex- 
citable ; but he refused to touch one of the living mice 
while I was watching it Finally I turned away from the 
cage and buried myself in the most distant part of the 
room, at which, however, hung a large mirror, in which 
I could watch the bird as perfectly as if I was near it. 
For a few minutes he remained motionless, evidently ex- 
pecting I would return to him, but as I did not stir, the 
bird, now all excitement, dropped upon one of the mice, 
burying his talons in its back as he caught the animal. 
The mouse uttered a faint squeak and struggled weakly 
but in vain, for the shrike, seizing it in his powerful man- 
dibles, with a sharp bite or two quickly killed it. As soon 
as the little rodent ceased to struggle the bird mounted to 
his perch, where, holding the mouse with one foot against 
the wooden bar that served as a roost, he commenced to 
tear it with his sharp beak. 
At this point his attention was diverted to another of 
the mice that was running about the floor of the cage, 
when, hanging his first victim upon one of the wire hooks 
that I had prepared, he dropped upon the second mouse 
and killed it just as he had killed the other. Again he 
ascended to his_ perch and prepared to feast upon his 
quarry, when his attention was again attracted to the 
movements of the third and last mouse. 
For a moment he held his victim in his beak and then, 
forcing it into an angle formed by the crossing of two 
wires, just as a jay forces an acorn into a crack of a tree 
or in the crotch of two limbs, he then dropped upon the 
remaining mouse and despatched it without any loss of 
time. 
And now happened the curious part of this incident; 
the third mouse was almost wholly eaten at one meal, the 
remainder of the body being hung on one of the wire 
barbs, where it remained until the cravings of the bird's 
hunger later in the day led him to finish it; but the other 
two mice were pemiitted to hang untouched for two 
days ; in fact, they were not eaten at all, for as an experi- 
ment I put two live mice into the cage on the second day, 
both of which he killed and ate. 
I inferred from this occurrence that the shrike hangs or 
impales its prey on thorns, etc., in a state of nature, 
not so much for the purpose of saving them for future 
food, or until they have become somewhat "high," as has 
been surmised by some writers, but simply as a method of 
putting them in safe keeping, as it were, while 
other victims are being disposed of, and the car- 
nival of killing is ended, and this seems to account 
for the fact that most of the birds or small animals that 
it destroys and hangs up remain untouched until they 
fall to the ground or are eaten by wandering crows or 
jays. 
For a week or more I had kept the shrike a solitary 
prisoner, when by accident I caught another one that had 
followed a junco into a carriage house in attempting to 
capture it. On seeing the birds enter the house, I rushed 
to the door and closed it, and after a short chase I 
caught the marauder with the snow bird firmly clutched 
in his talons. The fierce bird gave me a sharp bite or two, 
uttering a harsh, savage scream the while, before I suc- 
ceeded in getting it into the cage in which the other 
shrike was confined. Of course the entrance of the new- 
comer was the signal for a spell of Avild fluttering on the 
part of both birds, each of whom evidently regarded the 
other as an enemy. 
At last both quieted down and occupied the long perch, 
but each kept at the end of it as far from the other as 
possible. I doubt if two birds of equally bad dispositions 
were ever confined in one cage before. They were not 
only entirely unsociable, but they were positively hateful 
to each other. If either moved the other bristled up its 
feathers, opened its beak in a fiercely threatening manner, 
and prepared to attack its companion at a moment's no- 
tice. They absolutely refused to be reconciled to each 
other, and to the end continued the attitude of vindictive 
belligerency. 
One_ morning I found my first captive dead, his scat- 
tered feathers and badly cut head and neck showing un- 
mistakable signs that a fierce battle had been fought, and 
a day or two subsequently the second bird, which had per- 
sistently refused to eat, dropped from his perch, evidently 
from the weakness of starvation, and though I made 
every possible effort to induce him to swallow some mor- 
sels of meat, which efforts he savagely, but weakly, re- 
sented, he ci-awled into a corner of the cage and. with his 
leathers ruffled and his beak opened threateningly at me, 
he died. Edward A, Samuels. 
Connecticut Valley Migrants. 
From the Springfield Republican. 
From the migratory birds' point of observation, which 
is supposed to be usually at an altitude of from one to 
three miles, the Connecticut River, running in a general 
southerly direction from its source to its mouth, together 
with the pai-allel range of mountains on the east and west 
portions of the valley, must serve as conspicuous marks 
to guide these travelers in their spring and autumn 
journey. 
From remote times, the migration of birds has been 
considered a great mj'stery, but recent investigations have 
thrown considerable light upon the subject. Within the 
last few years, it has been ascertained that by focusing 
a powerful telescope upon the moon during clear nights, 
when the so-called bird rushes are at their height, an 
observer may see many migrants pass across the face of 
the moon, and even recognize the species to which some 
of them belong. We know that many kinds prefer the 
Connecticut River route, from the fact that they are often 
found stopping in this valley during the time of their 
migration, while elsewhere in central and southern New 
England they are comparatively rarely seen at this time. 
Probably inany of some species fly up and down the val- 
ley and, like express trains, do not stop at way stations, 
so we rarely see any of them here. Some years numerous 
individuals of certain kinds of birds may rest and pay us 
a short visit, and at the next time of migration most of 
them will go over in one long flight and hardly any 
alight _ in the valley. The bay-breasted warbler, about 
once in eight or ten years, during the month of May, 
will appear in abundance, and except during such seasons 
is not commonly met with here. The white-winged 
scoter, a species of sea duck, is said to pass up this valley 
on its way north the last of spring, but it hardly ever 
stops, and then only during severe storms or dense fogs, 
when the view of all landmarks is cut off from its vision. 
One year, in the month of May, during a quiet night, 
when the valley was filled with fog, I heard a large flock 
of ducks pass over Springfield, and so near that I could 
hear the whistle of their wings and the guttural note they 
uttered. Probably they were of the sea duck family. 
Another year, in the same month, when the meteorologi- 
cal conditions were similar, I heard constantly one 
evening for fifteen or twenty minutes the call note of 
sandpipers as they passed overhead, and for that time 
there must have been a continuous flock going north over 
Springfield, and so incessantly were their voices to be 
heard that a blind bird would have had no diificulty in 
keeping company with the flock. It is seldom that any 
species of sandpiper stops here in any great numbers, 
except the spotted and solitary, and this immense flock 
did not belong to either of these kinds. 
Some of the birds that usually spend the summer and 
raise their young further south, penetrate some distance 
up the Connecticut valley to breed, while elsewhere in 
New England they are only rarely found. Among these 
are the mockingbird, yellow-breasted chat, and several 
kinds of warblers, including the hooded and worm-eating. 
The experience that a wild bird goes through during 
migration, together with its constant effort to obtain food 
and to avoid its enemies, must tend to increase its intelli- 
gence. Take, for instance, the wild mallard, ever alert 
and quick to escape from danger, and with the sagacity 
to fly to food and fair weather when necessary, and com- 
pare it with its descendant, the common tame puddle 
duck, that has for generations depended upon man for 
food and shelter, so stupid that it will sit close to the 
ground and let a trolley car run over it rather than 
move. 
But few people realize how far south some of our sum- 
mer residents go in winter, and how short a distance do 
others. The bluebird that nests in the orchard of an 
Agawam farmer may pass the colder months in southern 
Connecticut, within sight of Mt. Tom, while the bobolink 
that breeds in his meadow extends its migration to the 
equator and beyond. The former can fly to us in a few 
hours at the first breath of spring, while the latter is on 
its way a long time. To migrate down the Connecticut 
valley on a fair night cannot be a very difficult task for 
an old bird that has followed this route for a number of 
years, neither would it be for a man in the night, under 
favorable conditions, to steer a perfected air ship down 
the lower Connecticut valley, with simply the portions 
of the sky that reflect the electric lights of the cities and 
towns, to serve as illuminated guides. Starting a mile 
high, over Northampton, the light of liolyoke would be 
an easy mark to steer by, and guided by the lights of 
Springfield, Windsor Locks, Hartford, Middletown and 
other places, an experienced air navigator would not be 
easily lost at night in going to Long Island Sound. 
While, under favorable circumstances, the flight of a 
bird a few hundred miles may not seem a very marvelous 
performance, the mechanical force required to go through 
the great annual migration of some species must be very 
great. Take the bobolink, for instance. It does seem 
wonderful that its little heart, an organ about the size of 
a pea, will pump the blood that nourishes the muscles 
that propel this little body down and over the entire 
length of the United States, passing along the Central 
American coast and then over Venezuela and Colombia, 
across the equator and the headwaters of the Amazon, to 
its winter quarters in southern Brazil, and will furnish 
the power that will bring it back again in the spring, and 
with a so well timed journey that you may hear its first 
song of the season on a West Springfield meadow within 
forty-eight hours of the 8th of May in each year. 
The power of vision in birds is far more keen and clear 
than in human beings. Some kinds are said to be able to 
distinguish a small object twenty times as far as can 
man. A hawk has been seen to descend from a great 
height in a perpendicular line and seize a little insignifi- 
cant mouse which he had singled out for his quarry. 
Birds have the power to instantly adjust their eyes for 
bright or obscure light, and to quickly focus them upon 
either near or far objects. With their telescopic eyes, 
what changes in the landscape of this valley must have 
appeared to the night-flying migrants in their spring and 
autumn journey during the last 300 years. 
The Indian name for the Connecticut River was some- 
times interpreted to mean the river of pines. The valley 
must then have been almost an unbroken forest. The 
few clearings made by the handful of Indians that dwelt 
along the larger streams was but an insignificant portion 
of the whole. Dark and gloomy was the view that then 
met the eyes of the night-flying migrants as they looked 
down from their point of observation in the upper air; 
but following the appearance of the Puritans here, in the 
less than three centuries a great change occurred in the 
face of the country, first by the clearing away of the 
original forest, by the apeparance of cultivated fields lined 
oft' by the stone walls and Virginia fences and by the 
building of villages and towns ; and during the last sixty 
years new and strange objects have constantly appeared 
to the vision of the night-traveling birds. 
The engines of the steam railroads, with smoke issuing 
from them, and occasional flashes of light toward the 
sky, seeming to the migrants like lightning from the 
earth, the lamp and gas-lighted towns, dim in comparison 
with those of our day, and later the modern cities with 
their blaze of lights, the suburban trolley cars, looking 
from a mile above like moving stars, all these changes 
of the aspect of the country have come by degrees, and 
many thing.^ are as they have alwaj^s been since migration 
up and down this region began. The mountains and side 
valleys are still here, serving as landmarks to the passing 
birds, just as they did ages ago. Robert O. Morris. 
Springfield, Mass. 
Some More Early Signs. 
Mtddletown, N. Y., March 8. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: The "Farmers' Almanac" says spring is here, 
and so does Forest and Stream, and it must be so. 
Sunday, March i, I awoke to find the first clear Sunday 
we had had in about nine weeks, and also to find that the 
month was being ushered in in due and ancient form — 
she was roaring. 
I started out for a walk to look for "signs of spring," 
and shortly was greeted by the voice of the bluebird sing- 
ing in the spruce trees. I stopped to listen and this is 
what he said : "Curious, curious, curious, it's cold and 
chilly." 
Out of another tree robin redbreast was advising 
brother bluebird to "Cheer up, cheer up, 'twill soon be 
warmer." 
Monday evening, the second, about seven o'clock, a 
flock of wild geese passed over the city going northward; 
the honk, honk of the leader was sounded frequently, and 
the chattering of the flock could be distinctly heard. 
They were flj'ing low, no doubt attracted or bewildered 
by the electric lights. Several flocks of black ducks have 
passed over during the week on their way north. 
The crows have been moving north in a continuous pro- 
cession for ten days from about five o'clock in the morn- 
ing until evening. 
March seventh the crow-blackbirds arrived and are 
resting among the spruce trees on the lawns within the 
city limits. This is about the only time they come to 
town, save occasionally in some dago's pocket. 
By the way, the dago may be a very useful "cuss" in 
building railroads, waterworks and sewers, but he is at 
the same time, and all the time, a destructive "cuss." He 
hunts in season and out, Sundays included; it's his best 
day; he kills everything that runs or flies, and when 
"pulled up" he no understands. The dago should be 
suppressed. 
With the advent of spring I notice the usual crop of 
amendments to the fish and game laws. It seems to be 
the legislator's only remedy for spring fever. I would 
like to say something on the subject mj^self, but "what's 
the use." I've bored the Assemblyman and Game Pro- 
tector Kidd, of Newburgh, with suggestions until they 
cross the street when they see me coming. I may cut 
loose some time, but not now. JoHi^ Wilkin. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Noted the first appearance of robins and bluebirds 
this morning, March 6, This is the earliest date of their 
