nine-killer, from the belief that
he kills and sticks upon thorns nine grasshoppers a day.

To make my portrait of the shrike more complete, I will add another
trait of his described by an acute observer who writes me from western
New York. He saw the bird on a bright midwinter morning when the
thermometer stood at zero, and by cautious approaches succeeded in
getting under the apple-tree upon which he was perched. The shrike was
uttering a loud, clear note like _clu-eet, clu-eet, clu-eet,_ and, on
finding he had a listener who was attentive and curious, varied his
performance and kept it up continuously for fifteen minutes. He seemed
to enjoy having a spectator, and never took his eye off him. The
observer approached within twenty feet of him. "As I came near," he
says, "the shrike began to scold at me, a sharp, buzzing, squeaking
sound not easy to describe. After a little he came out on the end of
the limb nearest me, then he posed himself, and, opening his wings a
little, began to trill and warble under his breath, as it were, with an
occasional squeak, and vibrating his half-open wings in time with his
song." Some of his notes resembled those of the bluebird, and the whole
performance is described as pleasing and melodious.

This account agrees with Thoreau's observation, where he speaks of the
shrike "with heedless and unfrozen melody bringing back summer again."
Sings Thoreau:--

"His steady sails he never furls
At any time o' year,
And perching now on winter's curls,
He whistles in his ear."

But his voice is that of a savage,--strident and disagreeable.

I have often wondered how this bird was kept in check; in the struggle
for existence it would appear to have greatly the advantage of other
birds. It cannot, for instance, be beset with one tenth of the dangers
that threaten the robin, and yet apparently there are a thousand robins
to every shrike. It builds a warm, compact nest in the mountains and
dense woods, and lays six eggs, which would indicate a rapid increase.
The pigeon lays but two eggs, and is preyed upon by both man and beast,
millions of them meeting a murderous death every year; yet always some
part of the country is swarming with untold numbers of them. [Footnote:
This is no longer the case. The passenger pigeon now seems on the verge
of extinction (1895).] But the shrike is one of our rarest birds. I
myself seldom see more than two each year, and before