258 THE SONG THRUSH, OR MAVIS. 



throstle in his works, neither does Shakespeare mention the 

 mavis in his. 



Wordsworth also notes the evening song of the mavis — 



" The linnet's warble, singing towards a close, 

 Hints to the thrush His time for their repose ; 

 The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again 

 The monitor revives his own sweet strain." 



But sometimes his excessive love of song is tinged with 

 jealousy, for — 



"At Chester in 1880, a thrush, in a happy state of freedom, was singing 

 in an orchard, when its music excited similar efforts from a caged thrush, 

 suspended in front of one of the houses. These feathered rivals raised 

 their musical efforts higher and higher, and still higher, when suddenly, as 

 if it could stand it no longer, the wild bird darted from its higher perch on 

 a tree down upon the wicker one of its competitor, and like a little fury, 

 broke the bars, entered the cage, and made a furious assault upon its 

 captive rival, the owner of which, hearing the skirmish, came out, saw 

 what was up, took the aggressor prisoner, and sold it into bondage." 



Could the caged bird have spoken, it might have said with 

 Wordsworth — 



" Thou thrush that singest loud, and loud and free, 

 Into yon row of willows flit, 

 Upon that alder sit, 

 Or sing another song, or choose another tree." 



The wild mavis paid dearly for its jealousy, as human prima 

 donnas, as well as tenors, sometimes pay dearly for a rival 

 spirit of emulation. But I doubt if that wild mavis ever sang 

 so sweetly in a cage as it did that day when it sat along with 

 Freedom on the old pear tree. But is it not a little strange 

 that the sweetest singers with man are the hen-birds, while the 

 ladies of our feathered friends are mutes ? — no doubt being 

 taken up with the cares of their families, which they cannot 

 delegate to nurses. Yet, as Shakespeare says, " He that has no 

 music in his soul is fit for sieges, stratagems, and murders," for 

 the love of Nature — from a lark in the sky to a little gowan on 

 the lea — is the highest of all our pleasures. " Go into a field 

 of flowers," said the Lord to Ezra, "and there I will come and 

 talk to thee." No doubt of it, for go where we will, if we 

 truly love Nature, God or good will come and talk to us. " We 

 will find tongues in trees, sermons in stones, books in the 

 running brooks, and good (or God) in everything." Another 

 poet says — 



" On ev'ry thorn delightful wisdom grows, 

 In every rill a sweet instruction flows." 



" For Nature never did betray the heart that loved her." 



