238 



THE SIERRA HERMIT THRUSH. 



WHEN asked h> name the best songster of Washington, I answer, un- 

 hesitatingly, tlie Hermit Tlirush. It is not that the bird chooses for his home 

 the icy slo]:)es and stunted forests of tlie high Cascades, tho that were evidence 

 enough of a poetic nature. It is not for any marl<ed vivacity, or personal 

 charm of the singer, that we praise his song; the bird is gentle, shy, and un- 

 assuming, and it is only rarely that one may even see him. It is not that he 

 excels in technic|ue such conscious artists as the Catbird, the Thrasher, and the 



Mockingbird ; the 

 mere comparison is 

 odious. The song of 

 the Hermit Thrush 

 is a thing apart. It 

 is sacred music, not 

 secular. H a \' i n g 

 nothing of the dash 

 and a b a n d o n of 

 Wren or Ouzel, least 

 of all the sportive 

 mocker y of the 

 Long-tailed Chat, it 

 is the pure offering 

 of a shriven soul, 

 holding acceptable 

 converse with high 

 heaven. No voice of 

 solemn-pealing or- 

 gan or cathedral 

 choir at vespers ever 

 hymns the parting 

 day more fittingly 

 than tliis appointed 

 chorister of the eter- 

 nal hills. Mounted 

 on the chancel of 

 some low - crowned 

 fir tree, the bird looks calmly at the setting sun, and slowly phrases his worship 

 in such dulcet tones, exalted, pure, serene, as must haunt the corridors of 

 memory forever after. 



You do not have to approve of the Hermit Thrush, — nor of Browning, 

 nor of Shelley, nor of Keats. The writer once lost a subscription to "The Birds 

 of Washington, Patrons' Edition, De Lu.xe, Limited to One Hundred Copies" 

 and all that, you know, because he ventured to defend Browning. "No : I do 



SIF.RUA HHRIIIT TURUSU. 



