XXIX 



THE HERMIT THRUSH 



By Standing on tiptoe we children were able 

 to see the tidy little nest in the arborvit* while 

 Grandpa held aside the branches. Only the tallest 

 of us could see down into the nest; once we 

 smaller ones begged so hard for a peep that each 

 was lifted to the level of the nest and gazed at the 

 five greenish blue eggs in wide-eyed wonder and 

 admiration. After the others had returned to their 

 play I used to go and sit under a neighboring 

 pine and watch for the mother bird's return. Only 

 once was my vigil rewarded by a glimpse of the 

 bird. A flash of red-brown and white at the top 

 of the arborvitae, that was all I It disappeared as 

 suddenly as it came, and left no trace. There was 

 no flutter, no chirp, but I knew she had returned 

 to her own and fled from the spot to tell my story. 



Grandpa said it was a thrush, and when we sat 

 on the porch in the summer evenings we heard 

 its song, so powerful, and yet so exquisitely sweet, 

 that it made the tears come. It was the first real 

 bird song we learned to know. How different 

 was its quality from the noisy choruses of the 

 blackbirds in the elms or the robins in the cherry 

 trees I The song, the soft red-brown color, the 

 spotted breast of this wood thrush are among the 

 most cherished memories of my childhood. 



(^57) 



