A Pair of Cousins — Robin and Thrush 201 



bird surpasses that of another, because bird songs are 

 largely matters of association and suggestion. At specific 

 times and places, or under certain mental feelings or emo- 

 tions, I have felt bird music sink into my memory to re- 

 main a lasting pleasure. I can never forget the song of 

 a winter wren I heard in the very heart of the forest. 

 I had tramped the whole day along the lonely trail, and 

 the heavy woods seemed so deserted of birds that I had 

 heard the call notes of only two or three rare species. I 

 dropped down to rest a few moments and was greeted 

 by a sprightly but plaintive little song, that seemed almost 

 lost in the primeval solitude of the woods. It was the 

 winter wren. 



Few songs have thrilled me more than the carolling 

 of the robin at sunrise on a crisp spring morning as I 

 have set out for a walk in the woods. Yet this is not 

 my favorite song. The thrush has a richer, fuller mel- 

 ody. His song is one that ranges the whole scale of pure 

 emotion. And it comes best about dusk from the shaded 

 canons or the dark, tree-covered lawns. 



The nest in the fir thicket beyond the orchard was a 

 typical thrush home. When I crawled in under the thick, 

 low-hanging branches of the fir saplings I almost put my 

 hand in the nest. The mother did not flush till I shook 

 the limb, and then she slipped through the branches and 

 gave a low whistle that brought her mate. The nest was 

 made of moss and lined with leaves. I have never found 

 a thrush's nest that was not built largely of moss. Moss 

 is as essential to the russet-backed thrush as mud to the 

 robin and lichens to the hummingbird. 



Whenever I visited the thrush's nest I met both the 



