238 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



grass around us we may discover many tragedies. 

 One fall I picked up a dead olive-backed thrush 

 in the Zoological Park. There were no external 

 signs of violence, but I found that the food canal 

 was pretty well filled with blood. The next day 

 still another bird was found in the same condi- 

 tion, and the day after two more. Within a week 

 I noted in my journal eight of these thrushes, all 

 young birds of the year, and all with the same 

 symptoms of disorder. I could only surmise that 

 some poisonous substance, some kind of berry, 

 perhaps some attractive but deadly exotic from 

 the Botanical Gardens, had tempted the inexper- 

 ienced birds and caused their deaths. 



As we walk through the October woods a covey 

 of ruffed grouse springs up before us, overhead 

 a flock of robins dashes by, and the birds scatter 

 to feed among the wild grapes. The short round 

 wings of the grouse whirr noisily, while the quick 

 wing beats of the robins make little sound. Both 

 are suited to their uses. The robin may travel 

 league upon league to the south, while the grouse 

 will not go far except to find new bud or berry 

 pastures. His wings, as we have noticed before, 

 are fitted rather for sudden emergencies, to bound 

 up before the teeth of the fox close upon him, to 

 dodge into close cover when the nose of the hound 

 almost touches his trembling body. When he 

 scrambled out of his shell last May he at once 



