22 THE BIRD OF SOLITUDE. 



nearer through the tall weeds, where I found, 

 crouching in this ample shelter, the cause of 

 the excitement, — a cat, doubtless on breakfast 

 intent. On seeing me she ran, and every bird 

 followed, hovering over her wherever she placed 

 herself ; and as long as I stayed, that day, I 

 could tell the whereabouts of poor puss by the 

 tumult above her. 



Because of its quiet tints, the beautiful plu- 

 mage of the wood thrush is often underrated. 

 Nothing can be more attractive than the soft 

 cinnamon browns of his back and wings, and the 

 satiny white of breast and under parts, tinged 

 in places with buff, and decorated profusely 

 with lance-shaped spots of brown. 



Lovers of birds alive and free have reason to 

 rejoice that our most interesting birds are not 

 gaudy in coloring. The indiscriminate and ter- 

 rible slaughter of these beautiful creatures, to 

 appear in some horrible, unnatural position on 

 ladies' hats, is surely enough to make the most 

 long-suffering lover of nature cry out in grief 

 and pain. To me — let me say it frankly — 

 they look not like an adornment of feathers, 

 but hke the dead bodies of birds, foully mur- 

 dered to minister to a passing fashion. 



There is one interesting peculiarity of color- 

 ing in the breast feathers of this bird. Snowy 

 white as they appear on the outside, they are 



