Jay listened very attentively at first, but in a few days had not only caught the words but the very intonation. Johnny never entered the room without the bird crying in a peevish tone, in a very ecstacy of mischief: "Ma, ma, ma-a-a!" "I hate that bird," said the boy one day, when Jay had greeted him with an unusually whining cry: "He ought to be killed. He makes me nervous." "Then I would stop whining if I were you," suggested his mother, and Johnny wisely concluded he would. A mockingbird which frequented the grounds of a gentleman in Virginia was noted not only as a most mischievous fellow, but as one of the most divine songsters of his tribe. So heavenly was his music, and so superior to that of his fellows, that at eventide in the general chorus his voice soared above all the rest. Men, women, and children gathered--for his fame had traveled far and near--to hear him sing, but in the very midst of his divine strains, Jip--for so they named him--would suddenly cease, and flying away, conceal himself behind a chimney on the housetop. Presently he would sneak down to the eaves and peer cautiously over, to see if his self-invited audience had scattered. If they were still there he would again hide himself, returning shortly to peer over the eaves again. As soon as the back of his last auditor was visible down he would fly to his chosen perch and resume his glorious song, tempting his audience to return. This time he would regale them with the choicest of his trills, breaking off in the midst as before and mischievously flying away to hide himself. This little comedy he would repeat three or four times during an afternoon or a moonlight night. A black cat of the household was a recipient of his practical jokes. When she was passing Jip found it exceedingly amusing to spring upon her back, give her a sharp dig with his beak, and then spring nimbly to a low branch, exulting over the cat's vain effort to locate her tormentor. A favorite joke of a mockingbird in Richmond, Va., was, when espying a dog, to utter a shrill whistle in exact imitation of a man summoning that animal. Thus peremptorily called, the canine would suddenly halt, prick up his ears, look up and down the street, then, seeing no master, trot on his way. Again the bird would whistle, but in a more mandatory tone than before. The dog would stop, gaze about in a puzzled manner, then, in response to another whistle, dash forward in the direction of the sound. The mystification of the dog appeared to afford the mockingbird the most delight, more particularly when not only one dog, but several would collect under his cage, whining and barking, vainly seeking to locate their masters.