i8o Our Bird Fries ds. 



Of course, no human words can ever represent, 

 especially in cold type, the passionate vehemence, the 

 sprightliness, or the tender pleading of a Thrush's song, 

 which always reminds me of the methods of a clever 

 preacher with a good voice. The loud, clear notes 

 repeated in order to hammer home some important 

 truth, the exquisite pauses in order to let them 

 sink in, the low, sweet pleading and the cheerful 

 ring of hope, are all there. 



The Missel Thrush is a great favourite of mine, 

 because he Avill sit on the topmost twig of some 

 high tree even in February and make his clarion 

 voice heard ab(>\-e the sound of the blast. Any 

 bird can sing while food is |)lentiful, the skies clear, 

 and things generally cheerful, but it takes a brave 

 heart to bid deMance to the cold hurrieane of a 

 winter's day. 



Many people are very ]>artial to the mellow, 

 fiutedike notes of the Dlackbird, and it nuist be 

 admitted that their power and sweetness are hard 

 to beat, especially when heard in some shady dell 

 on a calm summer's evening. This bird loves 

 the sununit of a dead stump rising well above the 

 foliage of surrounding trees, from which to pipe his 

 morning and evening hymns, and will often, like 

 the Connnon Wren, run over a lew bars after 

 having helped his mate to feed their }-oung. The 

 bird figured in the illustration on page 189 used to 

 sing from a dead stump on the edge of a wood, 

 and was photographed from our stuffed bullock one 



