AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



335 



Photo by C. A. Smiili. 



YOUNG WOOD THRUSH. 



broken by a song — a song so clear, simple, and flute like as to touch 

 the very soul of mankind. Slowly and deliberately, the musician de- 

 livers each note of his entrancing song, and as the last sounds fade 

 away into silence, they are caught as if by an echo and repeated by a 

 second chorister on the other side of the woods. To and fro, the 

 thrilling notes are wafted until night turns all things to a uniform color, 

 when each, tucking his head under his wing, seeks well earned rest. 



Like all gifted artists they are quite self-conscious. Even a noted 

 prima donna can not walk with a more satisfied air then they as they 

 daintily step along the fallen tree trunks and through the tangled under- 

 brush. It is an event worthy of note to steal upon and watch one 

 while he is in the ecstacy of song. I have seen one perch upon one 

 foot for not less than half an hour and without changing his position 

 in the least, mock the other fellow on the opposite side of the woods, 

 who perhaps was in the same position. There he stood with eyes half 

 closed and head thrown back while the only visible movement was the 

 swelling throat. Apparently lost in the rapture of his own melody and 

 oblivious to everything about him, I doubt not but what I might have 



