THE BROWN THRUSH. 



Dear Headers : 



My cousin Robin Redbreast 

 told me that he wrote you a 

 letter last month and sent it 

 with his picture. How did you 

 like it? He is a pretty bird — 

 Cousin Robin — and everybody 

 likes him. But I must tell you 

 something of myself. 



Folks call me by different 

 names — some of them nick- 

 names, too. 



The cutest one of all is Brown 

 Thrasher. I wonder if you 

 know why they call me Thrasher. 

 If you don't, ask some one. It 

 is really funny. 



Some people think Cousin 

 Robin is the sweetest singer of 

 our family, but a great many 

 like my song just as well. 



Early in the morning I sing 

 among the bushes, but later in 

 the day you will always find me 



in the very top of a tree and it 

 is then I sing my best. 



Do you know what I say in 

 my song ? Well, if I am near a 

 farmer while he is planting, I 

 say: "Drop it, drop it — cover it 

 up, cover it up — pull it up, pull 

 it up, pull it up." 



One thing I very seldom do 

 and that is, sing when near my 

 nest. Maybe you can tell why. 

 I'm not very far from my nest 

 now. I just came down to the 

 stream to get a drink and am 

 watching that boy on the other 

 side of the stream. Do you see 

 him? 



One dear lady who loves birds 

 has said some very nice things 

 about me in a book called "Bird 

 Ways." Another lady has 

 written a beautiful poem about 

 my singing. Ask your mamma 

 or teacher the names of these 

 ladies. Here is the poem : 



rjlHERE'S a merry brown tnrusn sitting up in a tree. 

 I He is singing to rne ! He is singing to me ! 

 -^ And what does he say — little girl, little boy ? 

 "Oh, the world's running over with joy! 



Hush ! Look ! In my tree, 



I am as happy as happy can be." 

 And the brown thrush keeps singing, ' 'A nest, do you see, 

 And five eggs, hid by me in the big cherry tree ? 

 Don't meddle, don't touch — little girl, little boy — 

 Or the world will lose some of its joy ! 



Now I am glad ! now I am free ! 



And I always shall be, 



If you never bring sorrow to me." 

 So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree 

 To you and to me — to you and to me ; 

 And he sings all the day — little girl, little boy — 

 "Oh, the world's running over with joy! 



But long it won't be, 



Don't you know? don't you see? 



Unless we're good as good can be." 

 83 



