254 Bird - Lore 



ground which he could have taken. Two or three times, when his meal was 

 over, he would rest on the tip of my boot, and take a nap, and I would grow 

 tense with the strain of absolute quiet in every muscle, afraid to breathe for 

 fear of frightening him. 



He loved to bathe in the pan of water I kept filled for the birds to drink 

 from, and sometimes he would go, afterwards, to the little earth-hollow which 

 was the exclusive property of the female nesting Thrasher, and cuddle in there 

 for a sun-bath, which of course meant a fight, for she would oust him in a tiny 

 fury, and twice he came over to me for refuge, where she dared not follow him. 

 Another time, after taking his bath, he came over to a tiny hollow just at the 

 edge of my skirt, where he flattened himself into a round ball in the sunshine, 

 glancing up at me occasionally in the gentle, sweet way he had that was so infi- 

 nitely winning. One action of his was pecuHarly winsome, and that was the 

 strange, exquisite courtliness of his attitude when approaching to eat from my 

 hand; as a rule he would lift his pretty wings till they met over his back, 

 though sometimes he merely extended them sideways slightly. "May I have 

 some, please ?" he seemed to ask, by this gentle courtesy. 



On July 20, he disappeared, and to say I missed the little fellow would be 

 to state it mildly. Day after day I hoped against hope that he would return, 

 but Thrashers were getting scarcer every day. It was August 14, when he finally 

 returned, and it took me three days to recognize him, for he looked larger, and 

 was not so pretty, being in a bad state of molt. But the characteristic, pretty 

 motion of the upHfted wings was unmistakable, and he was soon eating out 

 of my hand again as tame as ever. After September 5, he again disappeared, 

 and this time I feared I had seen him for the last time. But on the 

 13th when I entered the wood, he was there; he looked so different, however, 

 that I failed again to recognize him at first, for his molt was over, he was trim 

 and pretty, and his feather markings were unlike the old, frayed-out plumage. 

 He roosted on a bough in front of me, and began to sing through his closed beak, 

 — a song as clear and sweet, though not so loud, as any Thrasher melody heard 

 in May or June, — indeed he was full of song, his sides vibrating, and his long 

 tail shaking with the energy of his vocal efforts. The following day he was there 

 again, and this time I sat on the ground, holding out the cornbread, and then 

 recognized the bird as he flitted close to my hand, raising his wings in his own 

 dainty, graceful manner. This was the last time I saw him; and I have often 

 wondered since whether he knew how much I loved him? And he? He left 

 no"shadow of doubt in my mind as to the depth of his love for cornbread! 



