WHY THE MISSEL THRUSH. 141 



Ere yet is hushed the wintry howling wind, 

 Or twig of green thy little feet can find, 

 So thankfully thy heart its love-song pours 

 For hope alone of warmer, happier hours, 

 That I cry shame upon my thankless tears, 

 Shame on the heart that calls up phantom fears, 

 Mindless of all but of its present grief, 

 Nor finding in Hope's whisperings relief. 

 Oh, then I pray thee, hover in my way, 

 For I would emulate thy cheerful lay. 



But Knapp tells us that the Screech Cock is the herald 

 of storms, and appears to take delight in this vocation. 

 He says: 



The approach of a sleety snow-storm following a deceitful gleam 

 in spring is always announced to us by the loud untuneful voice of 

 the Missel Thrush, as it takes its stand on some tall tree, like an 

 enchanter calling up the gale. It seems to have no song, no voice, 

 but this harsh predictive note, and it in great measure ceases with 

 the storms of spring. We hear it occasionally in autumn, but its 

 voice is not then prognostic of any change of weather. The Missel 

 Thrush is a wild and wary bird, keeping generally in open fields 

 and commons, heaths, and unfrequented places, feeding upon worms 

 and insects. In severe weather it approaches our plantations and 

 shrubberies, to feed on the berry of the mistletoe, the ivy, or the 

 scarlet fruit of the holly, or the yew ; and should the Redwing or 

 the Fieldfare presume to partake of these with it, we are sure to 

 hear its voice in clattering and contention with the intruders, until 

 it drives them from the place, though it watches and attends, not- 

 withstanding, to its own safety. In April it begins to prepare its 

 nest. This is large, and so openly placed as would, if built in the 

 cop, infallibly expose it to the plunder of the Magpie and the 

 Crow, which at this season prey upon the eggs of every nest they 

 can find. To avoid this evil, it resorts to our gardens and our 

 orchards, seeking protection from man, near whose haunts those 

 rapacious plunderers are careful of approaching; yet they will at 

 times attempt to seize upon its eggs even there, when the Thrush 

 attacks them and drives them away with a hawk-like fury ; and the 

 noisy warfare of the contending parties occasionally draws our atten- 

 tion to them. The call of the young birds to their parents for food 

 is unusually disagreeable, and reminds us of the croak of a frog. 

 The brood being reared, it becomes again a shy and wild creature, 

 abandons our homesteads, and returns to its solitudes and heaths. 



By the foregoing accounts of the bird's habits, we think 

 our readers will have learned why it is called the Missel 

 Thrush. The popular name Shrite has no doubt reference 



