locality. On some twigs in the thickest part of the bushes I found his
victim,--a goldfinch. It was not impaled upon a thorn, but was
carefully disposed upon some horizontal twigs,--laid upon the shelf, so
to speak. It was as warm as in life, and its plumage was unruffled. On
examining it I found a large bruise or break in the skin on the back of
the neck, at the base of the skull. Here the bandit had no doubt griped
the bird with his strong beak. The shrike's blood-thirstiness was seen
in the fact that he did not stop to devour his prey, but went in quest
of more, as if opening a market of goldfinches. The thicket was his
shambles, and if not interrupted, he might have had a fine display of
titbits in a short time.

The shrike is called a butcher from his habit of sticking his meat upon
hooks and points; further than that, he is a butcher because he devours
but a trifle of what he slays.

A few days before, I had witnessed another little scene in which the
shrike was the chief actor. A chipmunk had his den in the side of the
terrace above the garden, and spent the mornings laying in a store of
corn which he stole from a field ten or twelve rods away. In traversing
about half this distance, the little poacher was exposed; the first
cover going from his den was a large maple, where he always brought up
and took a survey of the scene. I would see him spinning along toward
the maple, then from it by an easy stage to the fence adjoining the
corn; then back again with his booty. One morning I paused to watch him
more at my leisure. He came up out of his retreat and cocked himself up
to see what my motions meant. His forepaws were clasped to his breast
precisely as if they had been hands, and the tips of the fingers thrust
into his vest pockets. Having satisfied himself with reference to me,
he sped on toward the tree. He had nearly reached it, when he turned