ew
moments by the approach of a third man, and the policeman improved the
opportunity to visit the bush and bring away his breakfast. When the
fellow returned and found his table empty, he did not manifest the
slightest disappointment (the shrike never does; he is a fatalist, I
think); but in order to see what he would do, the policeman tossed the
body to him. It lodged on one of the outer twigs, and immediately the
shrike came for it; at the same time spreading his beautifully bordered
tail and screaming loudly. Whether these demonstrations were intended to
express delight, or anger, or contempt, I could not judge; but he seized
the body, carried it back to its old place, drove it again upon the
thorn, and proceeded to devour it more voraciously than ever, scattering
the feathers about in a lively way as he tore it to pieces. The third
man, who had never before seen such a thing, stepped up within reach of
the bush, and eyed the performance at his leisure, the shrike not
deigning to mind him in the least. A few mornings later the same bird
gave me another and more amusing exhibition of his nonchalance. He was
singing from the top of our one small larch-tree, and I had stopped near
the bridge to look and listen, when a milkman entered at the
Commonwealth Avenue gate, both hands full of cans, and, without noticing
the shrike, walked straight under the tree. Just then, however, he heard
the notes overhead, and, looking up, saw the bird. As if not knowing
what to make of the creature's assurance, he stared at him for a moment,
and then, putting down his load, he seized the trunk with both hands,
and gave it a good shake. But the bird only took a fresh hold; and when
the man let go, and stepped back to look up, there he sat, to all
appearance as unconcerned as if nothing had happened. Not to be so
easily beaten, the man grasped the trunk again, and shook it harder than
before; and this time Collurio seemed to think the joke had been carried
far enough, for he took wing, and flew to another part of the Garden.
The bravado of the butcher-bird is great, but it is not unlimited. I saw
him, one day, shuffling along a branch in a very nervous, unshrikely
fashion, and was at a loss to account for his unusual demeanor till I
caught sight of a low-flying hawk sweeping over the tree. Every
creature, no matter how brave, has some other creature to be afraid of;
otherwise, how would the world get on?

The advent of spring is usually an