He is the veriest "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" of birds.
Exquisitely proportioned, with finely poised black head and satin-gray coat,
which he bathes most carefully and prunes and prinks by the hour, he appears
from his toilet a Beau Brummell, an aristocratic-looking, even dandified
neighbor. Suddenly, as if shot, he drops head and tail and assumes the most
hang-dog air, without the least sign of self-respect; then crouches and
lengthens into a roll, head forward and tail straightened, till he looks like
a little, short gray snake, lank and limp. Anon, with a jerk and a sprint,
every muscle tense, tail erect, eyes snapping, he darts into the air intent
upon some well-planned mischief. It is impossible to describe his various
attitudes or moods. In song and call he presents the same opposite
characteristics. How such a bird, exquisite in style, can demean himself to
utter such harsh, altogether hateful catcalls and squawks as have given the
bird his common name, is a wonder when in the next moment his throat swells
and beginning phut-phut-coquillicot, he gives forth a long glorious song, only
second to that of the wood thrush in melody. He is a jester, a caricaturist, a
mocking-bird.
The catbird's nest is like a veritable scrap-basket, loosely woven of coarse
twigs, bits of newspaper, scraps, and rags, till this rough exterior is softly
lined and made fit to receive the four to six pretty dark green-blue eggs to
be laid therein.
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