The Wood Thrush 



BY COENELIUS WEYGANDT 



The Wood Thrush comes to us in the best days of the year, 

 that week at April's end between cherry-blow and apple-blow. 

 If the season is early you may hear him scolding in some 

 wooded creek-bottom by April 26 ; if it is late it may be after 

 May-day before you come upon him hopping, Robin-like but 

 silent, along the wood-path you are following. In any year it 

 is apt to be within a day or two of May before you hear him 

 sing, and May itself before his chant attains its fullest power. 



Long as I do for that song from the August day I last heard it 

 to the April day when its imperfect venturing brings me again 

 what is one of the great recurring happinesses of my life, it falls 

 on my ears when at last I do hear it with no surprise. Familiar 

 as is the Robin's after-sunset call, it is always startling to me 

 when I first hear" it, as most years I do, from the great oaks 

 outside my window, at early candle-light some evening of late 

 February ; and always startling, too, is the long and intricate 

 warbling of the Ruby Crown that six weeks later hurries me out 

 early in the morning to make sure it is the Kinglet himself that 

 is again in the pear-tree made memorable by his wonder-wak- 

 ing song. Perhaps it is because I have heard his song in 

 dreams that there is no surprise when life is again re-freshened 

 for me by the leisured raptures of the Wood Thrush; for though 

 I dream almost not at all there is never a winter passes but that 

 some night, perhaps of gritty snow that is driven against the 

 windows like blown sand, perhaps of thaw with wood's breath 

 on the wind, I hear that song. Perhaps it is because after all, 

 it is a song of few notes, and at once thrilling and reconciling, 

 that it will not out of memory. 



To some the Wood Thrush and his song are symbolical of 

 deep woods, of places remote from cleared lands and home- 



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