74 Binls I Have Kept. 



In Germany the Thrush is a bird of passage, departing in 

 October, and returning early in March; but in Britain he 

 remains all the year round, approaching our houses in the 

 winter, where he would soon become as familiar as the Eobin 

 Eedbreast, were it not for those implacable foes of all kinds 

 of birds, boys and cats. 



^Tien wild the Thrush sings from spring to autumn only, 

 but in the house will continue his flute-like notes all the 

 year round, except for a brief period while moulting. 



As I have quoted the testimony of one poet in favour of 

 the Blackbird, I can scarcely do less for the Thrush. 



TO A CAPTIVE THRUSH. 



Speckled, mellow-throated Thrush, 

 While thy partner patient sets 

 On her blue eggs in the bush, 

 Forgetful thou of traps and nets 

 Pourest forth thy wondrous song. 

 All day long. 



All day long thou pourest forth 

 Mellow notes in cadence rare; 

 Be the wind or south or north, 

 Thou carolest and dost not care. 

 Scarcely taking time to eat— 

 Sweet, O sweet. 



Was it not a sin, a crime, 

 To capture and to pen thee in 

 A narrow cage for all thy time. 

 Lodge thee 'mid the city's din, 

 Far from love and liberty. 

 Dear to thee? 



Were I in thy place. I'd die: 

 Yes, I'd die before I'd sing 

 To a jailor; nay, not I, 

 I would eat the food they'd bring, 

 Just, my vocal friend, as thou 

 Eatest now. 



