It was once my fortune to be arrested by
floods, in a certain village of the southwest;
where, there being few other means of amusement
in my power, I was glad to take refuge
in the woods, rambling repeatedly among the
grand old trees, and penetrating into shadowy
solitudes, where the strange and mournful
hum of locusts, perched in myriads among
the boughs, was mingled with the chirp of
nesting birds and the rustle of snakes and
rabbits, driven by the waters from their favourite
swamps.

In the course of one of these rambles, my
ears were saluted by a sudden squeaking and
wailing, of a very direful character, which I
by and by found proceeded from a catbird,
whose motions attracted my attention. She
was fluttering about a bush, occasionally

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darting to the ground, from which she rose
with a shriek, to flutter and dart again; and,
in short, betraying so much, and such unusual,
agitation, that my curiosity was aroused,
and I stepped forward to unravel the mystery.

The mystery was soon explained. Beneath
the bush, was a huge black snake,
swaying his head to and fro among the
branches, as if looking for the easiest means
of climbing it; or, perhaps, engaged in wheedling,
serpent-like, the poor catbird to descend—
at all events so much engrossed in his
occupation, whatever it may have been, as to
take no notice of my approach—a slight
which I immediately avenged by catching
up a stick and despatching him at a blow.

“Bravo!” cried the catbird, or seemed to
cry it: certainly, she uttered a squeak strongly
expressive of delight, and fluttered and tumbled
about my head in a very antic and familiar
way, chirping and chattering what I
could not doubt were meant to be grateful
thanks for the service I had rendered her; and
then darted into the bush, where I found her
nest, containing three or four callow young,
which she suffered me to look at, and even
to handle, without seeming to be greatly

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alarmed, or even moving more than a yard
or two from the bush.—It is a pity, poor catbird,
thou hast so greymalkin a voice! Were
it not for that, no bird would be a greater favourite
with man. None shows such a predilection
of his society, none so much confidence
in his honour and generosity; and
none, while admitting his familiarities with
her young, will more jealously and courageously
defend them from the attack of
enemies.

I sat down upon a fallen tree hard by, to
ponder upon these things—upon the good act
I had performed, and upon a question which
obtruded itself into my mind, namely, whether
this might not have been a case of charming,
of which I had previously heard, and read,
so much. It might be, for aught I could tell,
that the black-snake had been throwing his
spells around the poor bird; but, it was quite
as probable, the sable sinner was simply
climbing towards the nest, to make a dinner
of her young—an attempt sufficient of itself
to account for all her maternal agitation.

This little incident threw my mind into a
train of thought on the subject of reptile
fascination, which—the dead snake lying
at my side, the happy mother chirping in

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her bush hard by—I indulged in, until I arrived
at the results to which I have endeavoured
to give expression in the following
chapters.

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