AND AMERICAN RURAL SPORTS. 



79 



pastures, distant from the family mansion; or when the 

 woodman spent the day in the forest, preparing for our 

 winter's fire, I followed in their train as far as this delight- 

 ful spot. Then, while stealing alone along the borders of 

 the bubbling brook, would I start up the little noisy bittern, 

 whose protracted scream filled the forest with its echoes; 

 the lazy tortoise, basking in the sunshine on the mossy 

 rocks, alarmed, would slide into the smooth water; or the 

 piping frog, hopping among the weeds, along the impend- 

 ing bank, would dash headlong into the stream, at my ap- 

 proach. Here, for hours, have I reposed on some fallen 

 tree — my little red cork floating before me in the water — 

 waiting patiently for some "glorious nibble." It was on 

 such occasions, when the solemn stillness was only inter- 

 rupted by the monotonous chirpings of the insects in the 

 tall grass, the drowsy tinklings of the bells on the cattle, 

 or the hollow, remote sound of the woodman's axe, that I 

 remember first to have listened to the sweet song of the 

 Wood Thrush. " The time has long past, and the scene 

 is afar," but at this moment his notes seem to echo in my 

 ear, and rise in my memory like the music of Carril. I 

 will close this digression, by copying from an old manu- 

 script some stanzas, suggested to my mind by his peculiar 

 habits and his remarkable song. 



THE WOOD THRUSH. 



When bright Aurora gilds the morn, 



And music bursts from brake and bush, 

 And lofty oak, and lowly thorn; 



Oh then is heard the thrilling Thrush. 



He, from some branching, aged tree, 



The early breeze with rapture fills, 

 The joyous notes sweep o'er the lea, 



And echo from the grassy hills. 



The plough-boy blithe at peep of dawn, 



Whistling along his wonted way, 

 Now pauses on the dewy lawn, 



To catch the warblings of his lay. 



But when the sun in glowing car 



Rolls glittering o'er the panting plain, 

 Then deep in shadowy glens afar, 



He whispers there a lonely strain. 



But at pale evening's pensive hush, 



When the gay glow-worm trims his lamp, 



Again is heard the thrilling Thrush 

 In dewy dells and vallies damp. 



There is another species of Thrush, which we used to 

 call the Thrasher, (T. rufus,) which appears to be much 

 more numerous, and is certainly better known than the one 

 just noticed. It is often domesticated as a cage-bird, 



and his song is, to my taste at least, far superior to 

 that of the ever-varying Mocking-bird. 



As I have attempted to give a sketch of the scenery 

 where the Wood Thrush is commonly found, I will now 

 notice an assemblage of circumstances, always connected 

 in my mind with the song of the Brown Thrasher, or as 

 he is sometimes called, the Virginia Mocking-bird. 



Though the days of my boyhood were principally passed 

 in a large city, there was a beautiful spot in the neighbour- 

 hood, called Rose Hill, where I spent some of my happi- 

 est hours. This spot was distinguished for its rural scenery; 

 a fine green lawn sloped gently in front of the mansion- 

 house; and clumps of trees, hedges of briar and hawthorn, 

 and parterres of flowers, tastefully arranged through the 

 pleasure-grounds, all combined to render it highly pictur- 

 esque, beautiful, and enchanting to my youthful imagina- 

 tion. There were two large griffins, or huge china dogs, in 

 the shrubbery on the laWn, to which I became wonderfully 

 attached. It was while stretched on the grass, near one of 

 these figures, watching the graceful motions of my kite 

 floating high up in the clear blue sky, that the music of the 

 grove fell with peculiar rapture on my ear. The rapid war- 

 bling of the social little house wren, there mingled with 

 the notes of the robin, and numberless other songsters; 

 some in the branches over my head, and others in remote 

 thickets. Above all, the loud and cheerful song of the 

 Brown Thrush could be heard; the whole chorus produced 

 " a soul-soothing and almost heavenly music, breathing 

 peace, innocence, and mental repose." My fancy's eye 

 can now discover this Thrush pouring forth his melody 

 from the summit of an apple or a cherry tree, or the tops 

 of the hedge-rows, and then, as if in modesty, plunge into 

 the thick bushes, his long and graceful tail-feathers being 

 spread out like a lady's fan. 



I visited this sequestered spot a short time since; and 

 found it, alas, how changed. The venerated friends of my 

 childhood have long been gathered to their pious ances- 

 tors. The once hospitable and elegant mansion was now 

 silent, dilapidated, and forsaken. The public highway 

 now passed over the lawn; a vulgar substantial bridge 

 crossed the little stream, instead of the light rural frame- 

 work, near which I used to angle, and some ragged, roys- 

 terous, ill-favoured urchins, appeared to be the only inha- 

 bitants of this retreat, once the abode of so much refine- 

 ment, domestic comfort, and literary seclusion. 



It has been observed that there is something peculiarly 

 remarkable in the adaptation of the music of birds to the 

 human ear; quadrupeds seem to derive no pleasure from 

 it; and birds themselves, of different species, notice but 

 little the warblings of each other. Their various cries, or 

 screams of distress and alarm, seem to be quickly under- 



