The Brown Thrasher 105 



to lose all timidity, and, uttering their peculiar, hoarse cry, which sounds to me 

 more like the sharp tearing of a piece of stout cloth than anything else, fly fiercely 

 at him. I have had the skin of my hand broken by their sharp bills when exam- 

 ining nests containing young. This attack is conducted with such pathetic des- 

 peration and is so touching that it makes me feel heartily ashamed of myself 

 (when I am its object) and I oftimes beat a hasty retreat. 



Much has been said and written in praise of the Brown Thrasher's song. 

 Perched in some tree — tall or short, it matters not to him so long as he can 

 stand among its topmost branches — he pours forth his medley. I must, to be 

 entirely candid, confess that I do not like it. To my ear it is a confused and queer 

 mixture of rapidly repeated notes. As Mr. Torrey says: "High notes and low 

 notes, smooth notes and rough notes, all jumbled together in the craziest fashion." 

 Nevertheless, it has the quality of sincerity, and I go away feeling that the singer 

 has earnestly tried to do his best. 



The food of this species consists of caterpillars, beetles, grasshoppers, and 

 fruit of various kinds. In late August I have watched them among the rum- 

 cherry trees, gulping down cherries — pulp and stone together. 



Cats and blacksnakes undoubtedly destroy some of the young in my neigh- 

 borhood. On one of my rambles I found a nest with the bird sitting on three 

 eggs, at the foot of a white birch sapling in a pasture near some houses. Two 

 days later the young came from the shells; the next day I found an empty nest 

 and scattered about it were the long tail-feathers and many small brown ones 

 of a Thrasher. I suspect the author of this tragedy was a cat which sometimes 

 prowled about the pasture. This species begins to leave during September. By 

 the end of October, all Thrashers (with the possible exception of some abnormal 

 fellow) have departed for the South. 



ROSE-BREASTED GROSBEAK 

 This bird was benumbed by the cold and went to sleep while I was focusing it To get this picture 

 I had to touch the bird to wake him up. After a sun-bath of half an hour he flew up into a near-by 

 tree and became quite lively. Golden's Bridge, N. Y., May 12, 1907. By Warren C. Tudbury. 



