r imaginable. "Look
at me," he says; "do I act like one on the watch for his prey? Indeed,
sir, I wish the innocent sparrows no harm; and besides, if you must know
it, I ate an excellent game-breakfast two hours ago, while laggards like
you were still abed." In the winter, which is the only season when I
have been able to observe him, the shrike is to the last degree
unsocial, and I have known him to stay for a month in one spot all by
himself, spending a good part of every day perched upon a telegraph
wire. He ought not to be very happy, with such a disposition, one would
think; but he seems to be well contented, and sometimes his spirits are
fairly exuberant. Perhaps, as the phrase is, he enjoys _himself_; in
which case he certainly has the advantage of most of us,--unless,
indeed, we are easily pleased. At any rate, he is philosopher enough to
appreciate the value of having few wants; and I am not sure but that he
anticipated the vaunted discovery of Teufelsdrockh, that the fraction of
life may be increased by lessening the denominator. But even the stoical
shrike is not without his epicurean weakness. When he has killed a
sparrow, he eats the brains first; after that, if he is still hungry, he
devours the coarser and less savory parts. In this, however, he only
shares the well-nigh universal inconsistency. There are never many
thorough-going stoics in the world. Epictetus declared with an oath
that he should be glad to see _one_.[7] To take everything as equally
good, to know no difference between bitter and sweet, penury and plenty,
slander and praise,--this is a great attainment, a Nirvana to which few
can hope to arrive. Some wise man has said (and the remark has more
meaning than may at once appear) that dying is usually one of the last
things which men do in this world.

Against the foil of the butcher-bird's stolidity we may set the
inquisitive, garrulous temperament of the white-eyed vireo and the
yellow-breasted chat. The vireo is hardly larger than the goldfinch, but
let him be in one of his conversational moods, and he will fill a smilax
thicket with noise enough for two or three cat-birds. Meanwhile he keeps
his eye upon you, and seems to be inviting your attention to his
loquacious abilities. The chat is perhaps even more voluble. _Staccato_
whistles and snarls follow each other at most extraordinary intervals of
pitch, and the attempt at showing off is sometimes unmistakable.
Occasionally he takes to th