THE VARIED THRUSH. 



249 



NO : it does not always rain in western Washington. So far is this from 

 being tiie case, tliat we will match our Februaries against all comers, and 

 especially invite the attention of "native sons" of California. Our summers, 

 too, are just a little (lr\' latterlv, and we begin to wontler with a vague uneasi- 

 ness whether we are to be condemned to mediocrity after all. This paves the 

 way for a declaration that the true web-fonter, nevertheless, l()ves the rain, 

 and will exchange a garish sky 

 for a gentle drizzle any day in the 

 year. The \^aried Thrush is a 

 true \Veb-foi)ter. He loves rain 

 as a iish loxes water. It is his 

 native element and vital air. He 

 endures dry weather, indeed, as 

 all of us should, with calm stoi- 

 cism. Lchnic zii Icidcii ohnc en 

 klagcn, as poor Emperor Freder- 

 ick II, the beloved "Uitscr Fritz," 

 used to say. But the \'aried 

 Thrush is not the poet of sun- 

 shine. Dust motes have no charm 

 for his eyes, and he will not mis- 

 use his vocal powers in praise of 

 the crackling leaf. Ergo, he sits 

 silent in the thickets while avian 

 poet-asters shrill the notes of 

 common day. But let the sun 

 once veil his splendors, let the 

 clouds shed their gentle tears of 

 self-pity, let the benison of the 

 rain-drops filter thru the forest, 

 and let the leafage begin to utter 

 that myriad soft sigh which is 

 dearer than silence, and our 

 poet Thrush wakes up. He 

 mounts the chancel of some fir 

 tree and utters at intervals a sin- 

 gle long-drawn note of brooding 

 melancholy and e.xalted beauty, — 

 a voice stranger than the sound of any instrument, a waif echo slrancling 

 on the shores of time. 



Taken III K,iuii,-i .\,iti,'ii,ii r,ii L 



From t: Photograph Copyright, 1908, by IV. L. Dawson. 



A MORNING IN P,-\R.-\DISE. 



