The Hermit Thrush 153 



was soon completely forced out of shape. His body then protruded beyond the 

 lower rim of the nest and the ground underneath became littered with droppings, 

 quite baffling the cleanly, sanitary instincts of the Warblers. 



Our last photograph represents the Cowbird, now almost twice as large 

 as his devoted foster-parents, rising with hideous chitterings of deHght to receive 

 an ever-acceptable meal. The picture was taken at 7.30 a.m. on July 26. As I 

 walked home to breakfast, I resolved that in the interests of justice I ought to 

 put an end to that Cowbird as a murderer and a menace to the welfare of bird- 

 dom. But when I returned to the spot, about 9 a.m., he had escaped me; the nest 

 was empty, my bird flown. No doubt if I had searched and hstened I should 

 have heard him shouting for food not far away, but my spirit of vengeance was 

 only half-hearted at best, and so I left him, a criminal abroad, to be the parent, 

 I suppose, of others as bad. 



THE HERMIT THRUSH 



In the garden here, as a dreamer may, 

 I sit and muse on the waning day, 

 And mingled sweet with the sunset flush, 

 I hear the song of the Hermit Thrush. 



In this seraph mood does he sing to me? 

 Or his mate, enraptured on yonder tree? 

 Or does love of life into music rush 

 From the inmost heart of the Hermit Thrush? 



Not now to reason of nature's ways, 

 But in awe to whisper that joy is praise. 

 That this halcyon song in the evening hush 

 Is the prayer to heaven of the Hermit Thrush. 



— Marion Murdoch. 



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