ORNITHOLOGY 
07 
Shrikes Attempt to Get Canaries. 
BY PAUL R. MANN, HEAD OF BIOLOGY DE- 
PARTMENT, EVANDER CHILDS HIGH 
SCHOOL, NEW YORK CITY. 
While I was visiting in Brewster, 
Massachusetts, recently, one of my 
friends, Miss Edith Capen, reported to 
me within an hour of its occurrence a 
curious incident of biological interest. 
About eight o’clock on the morning 
of November 25, 1921, her two canaries 
hanging in the sunshine, one in each of 
two south windows, suddenly became 
greatly agitated and alarmed. Her at- 
tention was attracted by the noise of 
their fluttering and as she ran to the 
windows she saw the cause of the 
alarm. Some larger birds, later identi- 
fied as loggerhead shrikes, were doing 
their utmost to get through the pro- 
tecting glass of the windows, evidently 
determined to obtain the canaries. The 
food of shrikes, as most people know, 
consists of insects, mice and small 
birds, and these bright colored pets 
must have seemed tempting indeed on 
a November morning, when most ani- 
mal life had either migrated or begun 
to hibernate. In the case of these 
shrikes emotions were apparently 
stronger than their normal fear of man, 
for they alternately clung to the win- 
dow sash and dashed away a few feet 
to get a fresh start. There were sev- 
eral shrikes flying about the windows, 
but two in particular were so furious 
when balked by the glass that they 
spread their tails out like great fans 
and were not frightened off even when 
the canaries were being removed from 
the windows. Reluctant to give up, 
they flew to a rosebush about four feet 
away from the house and perched there 
for some time directly in front of the 
windows. 
The shrikes were apparently travel- 
ling in a flock, for at least eight were 
counted later in the garden where they 
had scattered among the bushes and 
trees. 
In the article, “Bird Notes around 
Stamford, Conn.,” by Mr. Paul G. 
Howes of that city in our January num- 
ber, the word “gulls” should have read 
“terns.” Mr. Howes states that no 
gulls breed here. The mistake was a 
slip of the pen and mind when he wrote 
the article. 
The Song of the Woodcock. 
New York City. 
To the Editor : 
Several of my friends have spoken 
of my reference to the song of the 
woodcock on page 214 of “A Surgeon’s 
Philosophy” and commonly with some 
question if the woodcock really sings 
sweetly. On a Sunday evening in 
March, I was at Merribrooke, Stam- 
ford, Connecticut, and went out as 
usual to listen to the different kinds of 
music in the air at that time of day. 
If you know of some doubter on the 
woodcock song question take him up 
to my place now. Singing begins a 
few minutes on either side of 6:30 ac- 
cordingly as the evening is cloudy or 
bright. 
Take a stand in the road about fifty 
yards inside of my entrance gate and 
keep quiet. The bleating of three male 
birds will soon be heard as they call 
while resting on the ground, the bleat 
sounding much like the call note of a 
nighthawk. One after another of these 
woodcock will then mount to about one 
hundred yards in a spiral flight with a 
loud twittering of wings. The wing 
note then becomes broken and is suc- 
ceeded by the <sweet warble, in timbre 
like the voice of the bluebird, continued 
while the bird descends in a spiral vol- 
plane. 
Farther in on my driveway to the 
right of the house you will see two tall 
elm trees. Take a stand under these 
trees and you can watch three more 
male woodcock going through their 
rivalries in singing. How much better 
it would be if men conducted their 
rivalries in this way instead of by fight- 
ing! If you care to hear still more 
woodcock singing you will hear them 
at the top of the hill just after crossing 
my bridge behind the barn, and another 
good place for listening to them is at 
the northeast end of my big lot along 
the river about half a mile from the 
house. 
You will perhaps see a deer or a 
fox while standing quietly listening to 
the woodcock. One evening a raccoon 
came within a few yards of where I was 
standing. 
Robert T. Morris. 
Trees are rooted men and men are 
walking trees. — John Burroughs in 
“Under the Maples.” 
