THE VARIED THRUSH. 249 
NO; it does not always rain in western Washington. So far is this from 
being the case, that we will match our Februaries against all comers, and 
especially invite the attention of “native sons” of California. Our summers, 
too, are just a little dry latterly, and we begin to wonder with a vague uneasi- 
ness whether we are to be condemned to mediocrity after all. This paves the 
way for a declaration that the true 
and will exchange a garish sky 
for a gentle drizzle any day in the 
year. The Varied Thrush is a 
true Web-footer. He loves rain 
as a fish loves water. It is his 
native element and vital air. He 
endures dry weather, indeed, as 
all of us should, with calm stoi- 
cism. Lehrne su leiden ohne zu 
klagen, as poor Emperor Freder- 
ick II, the beloved “Unser Fritz,” 
used to say. But the Varied 
Thrush is not the poet of sun- 
shine. Dust motes have no charm 
for his eyes, and he will not mis- 
use his vocal powers in praise of 
the crackling leaf. Ergo, he sits 
silent in the thickets while avian 
poet-asters shrill the notes of 
common day. But let the sun 
once veil his splendors, let the 
clouds shed their gentle tears of 
self-pity, let the benison of the 
rain-drops filter thru the forest, 
and let the leafage begin to utter 
that myriad soft sigh which is 
dearer than silence, and our 
poet Thrush wakes up. He 
mounts the chancel of some fir 
tree and utters at intervals a sin- 
gle long-drawn note of brooding 
melancholy and exalted beauty,— 
web-footer, nevertheless, loves the rain, 
Taken in Rainier National Park. 
From a Photograph Copyright, 1908, by W. L. Dawson. 
A MORNING IN PARADISE. 
a voice stranger than the sound of any instrument, a waif echo stranding 
on the shores of time. 
