Every morning during the month of February, 1898, a shrike came to a tree directly in front of my window on Pearson street, in Chicago. The locality abounded in sparrows and it was for that reason the shrike was such a constant visitor. The bird paid no attention to the faces at the window, and made its excursions for victims in plain view. The shrike is not the most skilled hunter in the world. About three out of four of his quests are bootless, but as he makes many of them he never lacks for a meal. 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 sparrow’s 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 conductor’s ticket clip.