WOOD THRUSH; WOOD EOBIN 235 



The song is always harmonized with the stage setting; 

 for instance, if after a cool, refreshing rain, on a June 

 or July evening, you visit the haunts of a Wood Thrush, 

 in some deep, dark, wooded ravine, and remain quiet for 

 a short period, you will hear the singer mingle its plain- 

 tive lay with the, drip-drip, of the raindrops from the 

 freshly soaked foliage. Then you will realize that the 

 song is a song of the deep woodland. 



When most birds have selected their roosting 

 perches, folded their wings and ceased their songs, save 

 for a few goodnight notes, the Wood Thrush may be 

 seen flying to its cloister for its evening hymns. Now, 

 you must keep perfectly quiet or you will hear the sus- 

 picous call of its mate, ' ' quit, quit ! " If you fail to heed 

 this warning note, you will see a nervous ruffling of 

 feathers and, with a bobbing of its tail, the bird will fade 

 away, apparently by dropping from its perch into the 

 surrounding shadows. Then from their darkness you 

 will hear its ventriloquist-like, faint, ''Come to me I" 

 in tones that are beyond description. 



If you would really listen to the pensive song of the 

 Wood Thrush, quietly linger in its shadowy ravine, near 

 the nest-site, until the sun has disappeared and all na- 

 ture's daylight activities have ceased and the cool breezes 

 of approaching nightfall are gently and noiselessly wav- 

 ing the upper treetops and the nocturnal things are slyly 

 peeping from their daylight retreats; then, if you are 

 fortunate, you may hear the bird, in all the glory of its 

 soft, inviting chimelike ' ' Come to me ! Come to me I uoli, 

 uole, lee lee!'' There is no other bird song of which I 

 know that has a more heavenly appeal to one's very 

 soul. 



One afternoon, while watching a Yellow Warbler, I 

 heard the beautiful, sad notes of the secluded Wood 

 Thrush. On looking around I discovered the owner of 

 the voice, sitting on a dead limb near the ground. The 

 bird's pose was that of serious resignation to parental 

 duties, while it went on busily weaving grasses, strings, 

 twigs and tissue paper into a new home about eight feet 

 from the ground, on a bending oak bush. I kept tab on 

 the carpentry, as the builder finished the floor and side- 

 walls. I visited the vicinity of the home, spying on family 

 affairs until two ugly little big-mouthed nestlings made 



