292 STORIES ABOUT BIRDS. 



instantly recognize liis voice," he says, " on 

 entering the woods. The top of a large white 

 oak, that overhung part of the glen, was 

 usually the favorite pinnacle from which he 

 poured the sweetest melody. I have frequently 

 listened to his song till night overtook me in 

 the woods, and the fire-flies began to sparkle 

 among the branches. But alas, in the language 

 of the poet, 



'One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, 



Along the vale, and on his favorite tree — 

 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 



Nor up the glen, nor in the wood vi^as he.' 



A few days afterward, passing along the edge 

 of the rocks, I found fragments of the wings 

 and broken feathers of a wood thrush, killed 

 by a hawk, which I contemplated with un- 

 feigned regret, and not without a determination 

 to retaliate on the first of these murderers 

 whom I should meet with." 



Mr. Audubon says of the song of the wood 

 thrush, " Although it is composed of but few 

 notes, it is so powerful, distinct, clear, and 

 mellow, that it is impossible for any one to 

 hear it without being struck with the effect 

 Avhich it produces on the mind. I do not 



