THE WOOD THRUSH 87 



my roof. I came to expect him as much as I ex- 

 pected my breakfast, and I was not disappointed 

 till one morning I seemed to miss something. 

 What was it ? Oh, the thrush had not sung this 

 morning. Something is the matter ; and, recol- 

 lecting that yesterday I had seen a red squirrel 

 in the trees not far from the nest, I at once in- 

 ferred that the nest had been harried. Going to 

 the spot, I found my fears were well grounded ; 

 every egg was gone. The joy of the thrush was 

 laid low. No more songs from the tree-top, and 

 no more songs from any point, till nearly a week 

 had elapsed, when I heard him again under the 

 hill, where the pair had started a new nest, cau- 

 tiously tuning up, and apparently with his recent 

 bitter experience still weighing upon him. 



There is no nest-builder that suffers more 

 from crows and squirrels and other enemies than 

 the wood thrush. It builds as openly and un- 

 suspiciously as if it thought all the world as hon- 

 est as itself. Its favorite place is the fork of a 

 sapling, eight or ten feet from the ground, where 

 it falls an easy prey to every nest-robber that 

 comes prowling through the woods and groves. 

 It is not a bird that skulks and hides, like the 

 catbird, the brown thrasher, the chat, or the che- 

 wink, and its nest is not concealed with the same 

 art as theirs. Our thrushes are all frank, open- 



