146 Bird Comrades 



and then for a few moments it would sink almost to a lull, 

 all of it like the flow and ebb of the tides of a sea of melody. 

 It was interesting to note how several voices would some- 

 times run into a chime when they struck the same chord. 



Let me call the roll of the members of that feathered 

 choir. First, and most gifted of all, were a couple of brown 

 thrashers, whose tones were as strong and sweet as those 

 of a silver cornet, making the echoes ring across the hollow. 

 I have listened to many a thrasher song in the North, the 

 South, and the West, but have never heard a voice of 

 better timbre than that of one of the tawny vocalists 

 singing that morning, as he sat on the topmost twig of 

 an oak tree and flung out his medley upon the morning 

 air. It is wonderful, anyway, with what an ecstasy the 

 thrasher will sometimes sing. Nothing could be plainer 

 than that he s^ngs for the pure pleasure of it an artist 

 deeply in love with his art. 



Falling a little behind the thrashers in vocal power 

 and technical execution were the catbirds, which sent 

 up their cavatinas from the bushes in the hollow. Their 

 voices lacked the volume and strength of their rivals, 

 yet some of their strains were truly the quintessence of 

 sweetness. 



Conspicuous members of the early chorus were the 

 wood thrushes, a dozen or more of which were often sing- 

 ing at the same .time. From every part of the woods 

 their peals arose. Of course, there was no attempt 

 at least, so far as I could discover to sing in concert, 

 but each minstrel followed his own sweet will, and so the 



