mbitions
and stooped to unworthy means, till what was meant to be a statesman
turns put to be a demagogue. But perhaps we wrong our handsome friend,
fallen angel though he be, to speak thus of him. Most likely he would
resent the comparison, and I do not press it. We must admit that
juvenile sportsmen have persecuted him unduly; and when a creature
cannot show himself without being shot at, he may be pardoned for a
little misanthropy. Christians as we are, how many of us could stand
such a test? In these circumstances, it is a point in the jay's favor
that he still has, what is rare with birds, a sense of humor, albeit it
is humor of a rather grim sort,--the sort which expends itself in
practical jokes and uncivil epithets. He has discovered the school-boy's
secret: that for the expression of unadulterated derision there is
nothing like the short sound of _a_, prolonged into a drawl. _Yah_,
_yah_, he cries; and sometimes, as you enter the woods, you may hear
him shouting so as to be heard for half a mile, "Here comes a fool with
a gun; look out for him!"

It is natural to think of the shrike in connection with the jay, but the
two have points of unlikeness no less than of resemblance. The shrike
is a taciturn bird. If he were a politician, he would rely chiefly on
what is known as the "still hunt," although he too can scream loudly
enough on occasion. His most salient trait is his impudence, but even
that is of a negative type. "Who are you," he says, "that I should be at
the trouble to insult you?" He has made a study of the value of silence
as an indication of contempt, and is almost human in his ability to
stare straight by a person whose presence it suits him to ignore. His
imperturbability is wonderful. Watch him as closely as you please, you
will never discover what he is thinking about. Undertake, for instance,
now that the fellow is singing from the top of a small tree only a few
rods from where you are standing,--undertake to settle the long dispute
whether his notes are designed to decoy small birds within his reach.
Those whistles and twitters,--hear them! So miscellaneous! so different
from anything which would be expected from a bird of his size and
general disposition! so very like the notes of sparrows! They must be
imitative. You begin to feel quite sure of it. But just at this point
the sounds cease, and you look up to discover that Collurio has fallen
to preening his feathers in the most listless manne