My Boyhood and Youth 



sin one of the best known and best loved is the 

 brown thrush or thrasher, strong and able 

 without being familiar, and easily seen and 

 heard. Rosy purple evenings after thunder- 

 showers are the favorite song-times, when the 

 winds have died away and the steaming ground 

 and the leaves and flowers fill the air with fra- 

 grance. Then the male makes haste to the top- 

 most spray of an oak tree and sings loud and 

 clear with delightful enthusiasm until sun- 

 down, mostly I suppose for his mate sitting on 

 the precious eggs in a brush heap. And how 

 faithful and watchful and daring he is! Woe 

 to the snake or squirrel that ventured to go 

 nigh the nest! We often saw him diving on 

 them, pecking them about the head and driv- 

 ing them away as bravely as the kingbird 

 drives away hawks. Their rich and varied 

 strains make the air fairly quiver. We boys 

 often tried to interpret the wild ringing mel- 

 ody and put it into words. 



After the arrival of the thrushes came the 

 bobolinks, gushing, gurgling, inexhaustible 

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