A BROWN THRASHER 
ever expressive tail — which, by the way, may 
have given him his name — would alone pro- 
claim him first cousin to the wrens. Of 
slender, graceful form and rich brown color- 
Nest of thrasher on the ground 
ing, he is the aristocrat of the bird world, 
exclusive, elegant. Yet full of moods is he. 
Inquisitive as a blue jay, jolly as a black- 
bird, passionate as an oriole, gentle as a 
thrush, sad as a wood dove, who shall 
describe him or his song? He chooses the 
topmost bough of the tallest tree from which 
to enchant a listening world. ‘“ Look at 
me! Hear me sing! Here am I, way up 
high. I can sing, I can sing. Go away, go 
away, bird robber, bird robber.” Or from 
a thicket you may hear him pour out 
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