y special plan of attack, like the kingbird or the oriole; his
aim appeared to be merely to worry the enemy, and in this he was
untiring, flying madly and without pause around a perching crow until he
took flight, and then attempting to rise above him. In this he was not
always successful, not being particularly expert on the wing, though I
have two or three times seen the smaller bird actually rest on the back
of the foe for three or four seconds at a time.

The song of the free mocking-bird! With it ringing in my ear at this
moment, after having feasted upon it and gloried in it day and night for
many weeks, how can I criticise it! How can I do otherwise than fall
into rhapsody, as does almost every one who knows it and delights in it,
as I do! It is something for which one might pine and long, as the
Switzer for the Ranz-des-Vaches, and the more one hears it the more he
loves it. I think there will never come a May in my life when I shall
not long to fold my tent and take up my abode in the home of the
mocking-bird, and yet I cannot say what many do. For variety, glibness,
and execution the song is marvelous. It is a brilliant, bewildering
exhibition, and one listens in a sort of ecstasy almost equal to the
bird's own, for this, it seems to me, is the secret of the power of his
music; he so enjoys it himself, he throws his whole soul into it, and he
is so magnetic that he charms a listener into belief that nothing can be
like it. His manner also lends enchantment; he is seldom still. If he
begins in a cedar-tree, he soon flies to the fence, singing as he goes,
thence takes his way to a roof, and so on, changing his place every few
minutes, but never losing a note. His favorite perch is the top spire of
a pointed tree, low cedar or young pine, where he can bound into the air
as already described, spread his wings, and float down, never omitting a
quaver. It seems like pure ecstasy; and however critical one may be, he
cannot help feeling deep sympathy with the joyous soul that thus
expresses itself. With all the wonderful power and variety, the
bewitching charm, there is not the "feeling," the heavenly melody, of
the wood-thrush. As an imitator, I think he is much overrated. I cannot
agree with Lanier that

"Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say;"

and that the birds are jealous of his song, as Wilson says, seems
absurd. On the contrary, I do not think they recognize the counterfeit.
The tufted titmo