148 IN BIRD LAND. 



than before, so as to be nearer me, — at least, so it 

 appeared. The affectionate little darling ! The only- 

 other sound he uttered during the entire time of 

 our hobnobbing — his and mine — was the slenderest 

 hint of a song, which was really more of a twitter 

 than a tune. 



But at last I bade the little sorcerer a reluctant 

 adieu. In a hollow of the woods I lay down on the 

 green grass, and listened for half an hour to the 

 lyrical medley of a brown thrasher perched on a 

 treetop. It was indeed a wonderful performance, 

 and the longer I listened the more its witchery grew 

 upon me. My special purpose in bending my whole 

 attention upon this performance was to see if the 

 thrasher mimicked the songs of other birds. Many 

 persons think him a genuine imitator ; indeed, in 

 some places he is called the northern mocking-bird. 

 I am forced to say, however, that, as far as my obser- 

 vation goes, he does not mimic, but sings his own com- 

 positions, like the original genius he is. In all that 

 song, and others since listened to, not a single strain 

 did he utter that I could positively identify as be- 

 longing to the musical repertoire of another bird. 

 It is true, he sometimes, in the midst of his song, 

 uttered the alarm call of the robin ; but as both birds 

 belong to the same family, this was not to be 

 wondered at, and affords no evidence of the gift of 

 imitation. If the thrasher does mimic his fellow- 

 minstrels, as many persons contend, the borrowed 

 notes are so brief and so intermingled and blent 

 with his own music as to be unrecognizable. 



