184 RIVERBY 



III 



How completely the life of a bird revolves about 

 its nest, its home ! In the case of the wood thrush, 

 its life and joy seem to mount higher and higher as 

 the nest prospers. The male becomes a fountain 

 of melody; his happiness waxes day by day; he 

 makes little triumphal tours about the neighborhood, 

 and pours out his pride and gladness in the ears of 

 all. How sweet, how well-bred, is his demonstra- 

 tion ! But let any accident befall that precious nest, 

 and what a sudden silence falls upon him! Last 

 summer a pair of wood thrushes built their nest 

 within a few rods of my house, and when the enter- 

 prise was fairly launched and the mother bird was 

 sitting upon her four blue eggs, the male was in the 

 height of his song. How he poured forth his rich 

 melody, never in the immediate vicinity of the nest, 

 but always within easy hearing distance! Every 

 morning, as promptly as the morning came, between 

 five and six, he would sing for half an hour from the 

 top of a locust-tree that shaded my roof. I came 

 to expect him as much as I expected my breakfast, 

 and I was not disappointed till one morning I seemed 

 to miss something. What was it ? Oh, the thrush 

 has not sung this morning. Something is the mat- 

 ter ; and recollecting that yesterday I had seen a red 

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

 inferred 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 



