18 AN IDLER ON MISSIONARY RIDGE. 



cated, their case was tragical indeed; but 

 at the moment, instead of pitying them, 

 I fell to wondering just when it is that 

 the thrasher smacks (all friends of his are 

 familiar with his resounding imitation of a 

 kiss), and when it is that he whistles. I 

 have never made out, although I believe I 

 know pretty well the states of mind thus 

 expressed. The thrasher is to a peculiar 

 degree a bird of passion ; ecstatic in song, 

 furious in anger, irresistibly pitiful in lamen- 

 tation. How any man can rob a thrasher's 

 nest with that heartbroken whistle in his 

 ears is more than I can imagine. 



Indigo-birds are here, of course. Their 

 number is one of the marvels of this coun- 

 try, — though indeed the country seems 

 made for them, as it is also for chats and 

 white-eyed vireos. A bit farther down the 

 valley, as I come to the maples and tupelos, 

 with their grateful density of shade, a wood 

 pewee sings, and then a wood thrush. At 

 the same moment, an Acadian flycatcher, 

 who is always here (his nest is building 

 overhead, as, after a while, I discover), sar 

 lutes me with a quick, spiteful note. " No 

 trespassing," he says. Landowners are 



