The Pearson street shrike one day rounded the corner of the building on its way to its favorite perch, and encountering a sparrow midway struck it down in full flight. The shrike carried its struggling victim to the usual tree. There it drilled a hole in the sparrows skull and then allowed the suffering, quivering creature to fall toward the ground. The butcher followed with a swoop much like that of a hawk and, catching its prey once more, bore it aloft and then dropped it again as it seemed for the very enjoyment of witnessing suffering. Finally when the sparrow had fallen for the third time it reached the ground before the shrike could reseize it. The victim had strength enough to flutter into a small hole in a snow bank, where it was hidden from sight. The shrike made no attempt to recapture the sparrow. It seemingly was a pure case of "out of sight, out of mind." In a few moments it flew away in search of another victim. The sparrow was picked up from the snow bank and put out of its misery, for it was still living. There was a hole in its skull as round as though it had been punched with a conductors ticket clip.

It has been my experience that the Great Northern Shrike hunts most successfully when he, so to speak, flies down his prey. If he gets a small bird well started out into the open and with cover at a long distance ahead, the shrike generally manages to overtake and overpower his victim. If the quarry, however, is sought in the underbrush or in the close twined branches of the treetop, it generally succeeds in eluding the butcher. One of the most interesting incidents of all my bird observations was that of the attempted capture by a Great Northern Shrike of a small brown creeper. The scene of the action was near the south end of the Lincoln Park lagoon in Chicago. The creeper was nimbly climbing a tree bole, industriously picking out insects, as is his custom, when a shrike dropped down after him from its high perch on a tree which stood close and overshadowed the one from whose bark the creeper was gleaning its breakfast.

The shrike was seen coming. The creeper, for the fraction of a second, flattened itself and clung convulsively to the tree trunk. Then, recovering, it darted to the other side of the bole, while the shrike brought up abruptly and clumsily just at the spot where the creeper had been. The discomfited bird went back to its perch. The creeper rounded the tree once more and down went the shrike. The tactics of a moment before were repeated, the shrike going back to its perch chagrined and empty clawed. Five times it made the attempt to capture the creeper, and every time the little bird eluded its enemy by a quick retreat. It was a veritable game of hide and seek, amusing and interesting for the but to the birds a game of life and death. Life won. I ever have believed thoroughly that the creeper thought out the problem of escape for itself. The last time the shrike went back to its perch the creeper did not show round the trunk again, but instead flew away, keeping the bole of the tree between itself and its foe. It reached a place of safety unseen. The shrike watched for the quarry to reappear. In a few moments it grew impatient and flew down and completely circled the tree. Then, seemingly knowing that it had been fooled, it left the place in disgust.

Of the boldness of the Great Northern Shrike there can be no question. It allows man to approach within a few feet and looks him in the eye with a certain haughty defiance, showing no trace of nervousness, save the flirting of his tail, which is a characteristic of the bird and in no way attributable to fear or uneasiness. One morning early in March, when the migration had just started, I saw two shrikes on the grass in the very center of the ball ground at the south end of Lincoln Park. They were engaged in a pitched battle, and went for each other much after the manner of game cocks. The feathers literally flew. I looked at them through a powerful field glass and saw a small dark object on the grass at the very point of their fighting. Then I knew that the battle was being waged for the possession of an unfortunate bird victim. The birds kept tip the fight for fully two minutes.