Chapter IV 



IN THE WAKE OF THE BROWN THRASHER 



THE finest woodland singer of the first 

 real days of spring in my neighbor- 

 hood, and the one most lavish with 

 his splendid store of song is undoubtedly 

 the Brown Thrasher— the ^^ Thrush'^ that is 

 not a Thrush at all, but a species of Mock- 

 ing-bird. 



And he is a wise singer, too, — his habit of 

 ignoring the deceptive lures of the vernal 

 equinox and delaying his arrival until the 

 white cherry-blossoms have in fact appeared, 

 and fill the thicket with their fragrance, 

 and the clusters of the spicewood warm and 

 brighten it with gold, adding not a little 

 to the witchery of his wonderful voice. 



He may be expected with almost absolute 

 certainty by the twentieth of April where 

 I live, along with the Chimney Swift and 

 the Wren; but scarcely an hour before that. 



[56] 



