Brown, Olive or Grayish Brown, and Bro'wn and Gray Sparrowy Birds 



on sides and breast with heart-shaped spots of very dark 

 brown. Whitish eye-ring. 



Migrations — Late April or early May. October. Summer resident 



When Nuttall wrote of "this solitary and retiring songster," 

 before the country was as thickly settled as it is to-day, it possi- 

 bly had not developed the confidence in men that now distin- 

 guishes the wood thrush from its shy congeners that are distinctly 

 wood birds, which it can no longer strictly be said to be. In city 

 parks and country places, where plenty of trees shade the village 

 streets and lawns, it comes near you, half hopping, half running, 

 with dignified unconsciousness and even familiarity, all the more 

 delightful in a bird whose family instincts should take it into 

 secluded woodlands with their shady dells. Perhaps, in its heart 

 of hearts, it still prefers such retreats. Many conservative wood 

 thrushes keep to their wild haunts, and it must be owned not a 

 few liberals, that discard family traditions at other times, seek the 

 forest at nesting time. But social as the wood thrush is and 

 abundant, too, it is also eminently high-bred ; and when contrasted 

 with its tawny cousin, the veery, that skulks away to hide in the 

 nearest bushes as you approach, or with the hermit thrush, that 

 pours out its heavenly song in the solitude of the forest, how 

 gracious and full of gentle confidence it seems! Every gesture is 

 graceful and elegant; even a wriggling beetle is eaten as daintily 

 as caviare at the king's table. It is only when its confidence in 

 you is abused, and you pass too near the nest, that might easily 

 be mistaken for a robin's, just above your head in a sapling, that 

 the wood thrush so far forgets itself as to become excited. Pit, 

 pit. pit. sharplv reiterated, is called out at you with a strident 

 quality in the tone that is painful evidence of the fearful anxiety 

 your presence gives this gentle bird. 



Too many guardians of nests, whether out of excessive hap- 

 piness or excessive stupidity, have a dangerous habit of singing 

 very near them. Not so the wood thrush. " Come to me," as 

 the opening notes of its flute-like song have been freely trans- 

 lated, invites the intruder far away from where the blue eggs lie 

 cradled in ambush. " Uoli-a-e-o-li-uoli-nol-aeolee-lee ! " is as 

 good a rendering into syllables of the luscious song as could very 

 well be made. Pure, liquid, rich, and luscious, it rings out from 

 the trees on the summer air and penetrates our home like a strain 

 of music from a stringed quartette. 



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