The Song Thrush 



that can boast of a shrub large enough to conceal him and 

 his nest. Any sort of cultivated country forms his home, 

 either the broad fields, scanty hedgerows, the carefully- 

 cultivated garden of the wealthy, or even the small and 

 dusty plot of the town-dweller. 



His food consists chiefly of insects, though worms form 

 a considerable part of his diet, and snails are a delicacy of 

 which he is extremely fond. 



There must be few people who have not noticed our 

 brown friend hopping down the garden path with his 

 peculiar sidelong leaps, now and then varied by two or 

 three quick short steps as he conveys a snail to his 

 favourite abattoir. This usually consists of a moderate-sized 

 smooth stone, on which the unfortunate snail is beaten till 

 his house falls from him ; when this is accomplished there 

 is a quick gulp, and he is gone ! Thus refreshed, our friend 

 will mount a near-by twig, clean his bill by rubbing it 

 several times on either side of his perch, preen and shake 

 out his feathers a bit, and then resting on one leg he will 

 whistle his song, which has been rendered by some writers 

 in the following words : " Deal o' wet, deal o' wet, deal 

 o' wet, I do, I do, I do. Who'd do it : Pretty Dick, Pretty 

 Dick, Pretty Dick, Who'd do it." This will go on for some 

 time until perhaps he happens to glance down at the lawn 

 which he considers his especial preserve. Here he sees 

 something which causes his song to cease in an instant. 

 It is his rival openly flaunting himself before him. There 

 is a swirl of wings as he rushes to the attack ! They 

 meet ! Their bills snap violently, and there is every 

 prospect of a fight. Then suddenly the rival retreats pre- 



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