In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 



Let us look him up a bit. It is early 

 morning, clear but cool, and the trees are 

 still leafless. You have caught the mys- 

 terious lure of his voice (coming from every- 

 where and nowhere, like that of the Blue- 

 bird), and he has companions with him to 

 the number of a dozen or so; and yet 

 you find it impossible to fix any of them 

 longer than an instant, so shy and elusive 

 are they; until at last one actually does 

 sit quiet with his back toward you on 

 the gray and white branch of a button- 

 wood tree. 



Then you find through your field-glass 

 that his feathers are streaked slate color 

 from the crown of his head to his rump, 

 and that here they change with absolute 

 abruptness to a strange cinnamon-brown 

 down to the end of his tail. He is almost 

 as large as the Hermit Thrush and his 

 white breast is conspicuously marked with 

 many rich brown blotches. 



Up in Canada, where he spends the 

 summer, his music — which with us is but 

 a thrillingly sweet hint of a real song— 



[61] 



