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 up the fight for fully two minutes. Then, being anxious to find out just what the dead bird was which had given rise to the row, I walked rapidly toward the combatants. They paid no heed to me until I was within twenty feet of the scene of their encounter. Then they flew away. I kept my eyes on the much ruffled body of the little victim lying on the grass and, walking toward it, I stooped over to pick it up. At that instant, as quick as the passing of light, one of the shrikes darted under my hand, seized the quarry and made off with it. It was an exhibition of boldness that did not fail to win admiration. I did not have the chance to learn what bird it was that had fallen a victim to the shrikes’ rapacity and had been the cause of that battle royal.