148 IN BIRD LAND. 
than before, so as to be nearer me, -—at least, so it 
appeared. ‘The affectionate little darling! ‘The only 
other sound he uttered during the entire time of 
our hobnobbing — his and mine — was the slenderest 
hint of a song, which was really more of a twitter 
than a tune. 
But at last I bade the little sorcerer a reluctant 
adieu. In a hollow of the woods I lay down on the 
green grass, and listened for half an hour to the 
lyrical medley of a brown thrasher perched on a 
treetop. It was indeed a wonderful performance, 
and the longer I listened the more its witchery grew 
upon me. My special purpose in bending my whole 
attention upon this performance was to see if the 
thrasher mimicked the songs of other birds. Many 
persons think him a genuine imitator; indeed, in 
some places he is called the northern mocking-bird. 
I am forced to say, however, that, as far as my obser- 
vation goes, he does not mimic, but sings his own com- 
positions, like the original genius he is. In all that 
song, and others since listened to, not a single strain 
did he utter that I could positively identify as be- 
longing to the musical repertoire of another bird. 
It is true, he sometimes, in the midst of his song, 
uttered the alarm call of the robin ; but as both birds 
belong to the same family, this was not to be 
wondered at, and affords no evidence of the gift of 
imitation. If the thrasher does mimic his fellow- 
minstrels, as many persons contend, the borrowed 
notes are so brief and so intermingled and _ blent 
with his own music as to be unrecognizable. 
OO 
