notes of tbe 



and worn out, then the thrush filled every lone 

 pathway with its sweetest notes ; sweet yet sad, a 

 song of one who had loved and lost rather than 

 happy with its listening mate. Loitering still, I 

 would watch the songster until it was too tired 

 even of such music as its own, and dived into the 

 tangled thicket for the night. 



I recalled the breaking of many a dewy spring 

 morning, when, while the unfolding leaves were 

 dripping and scarcely a swallow had ventured 

 into the murky air, this same thrush had already 

 shaken the moisture from his nut-brown wings and 

 sang as if sadness were a thing unknown. And 

 how I lingered at the meadow gate, those juicy 

 spring mornings, listening and wondering with 

 wide-eyed surprise that the world should hear so 

 little of all this woodside melody. Could it be 

 possible that this bird was singing only for my 

 pleasure ? 



I remembered the first of the nests of these 

 birds that I had seen, in the old apple tree near 

 the kitchen door, and with what excitement I saw 

 the four blue eggs in their rude cradle of dead 

 grass. I could still feel my grandfather's finger 

 clasped in my hand, as when he led me to the 

 spot and lifted me well up that I might see ; and 

 how still we stood when the bird began to sing ! 



Never a year since then butj have watched 

 for the coming of the first thrush in spring ; never 

 an autumn that I have not marked their departure 

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