WOOD THRUSH. a 
loud, and sublime, there are many whose song flows forth softly, deliberately, almost 
plaintively. The bird’s fine form and position, its plain but rich plumage, its aristo- 
cratic mein—all harmonize with its song. Truly, the Wood Thrush is the queen of 
song of our northern woods. I, for my part, prefer its lay to the day-song of the 
hurrying, ever gay and somewhat careless, all-imitating Mockingbird. All of our bird- 
lovers, all our great ornithologists and students of nature speak with enthusiasm of 
the Wood Thrush. 
“The song of the Wood Thrush,” says Audubon, ‘although composed of but few 
notes, is so powerful, distinc, clear, and mellow, that it is impossible for any person to 
hear it without being struck by the effect which it produces on the mind. I do not 
know to what instrumental sounds I can compare these notes, for I really know none 
so melodious and harmonical. They gradually rise in strength, and then fall in gentle 
cadences, becoming at length so low as to be scarcely audible; like emotion of the 
lover, who at one moment exults in the hope of possessing the object of his affections, 
and the next pauses in suspense, doubtful of the result of all his efforts to please.” 
The lay of this exquisite songster is heard soon after its arrival. It appears 
during the night in its summer quarters, and in the gray of dawn announces its coming 
by its song. It is heard singing even after the fading of the evening twilight and in 
dark and gloomy weather. The effect of such singing on the fine-feeling lover of nature 
is described by Audubon in his lively, fascinating manner :— 
“The Wood Thrush is my greatest favorite of the feathered tribes of our woods. 
To it I owe much. How often has it revived my drooping spirits, when I have listened 
to its wild notes in the forest, after passing a restless night in my slender shed, so 
feebly secured against the violence of the storm, as to show me the futility of my best 
efforts to rekindle my little fire, whose uncertain and vacillating light had gradually 
died away under the destructive weight of the dense torrents of rain that seemed to 
involve the heavens and the earth in one mass of fearful murkiness, save when the red 
streak of the flashing thunderbolt burst on the dazzled eye, and, glancing along the 
huge trunk of the stateliest and noblest trees in my immediate neighborhood, were 
instantly followed by an uproar of crackling, crashing, and deafening sounds, rolling 
their volumes in tumultuous eddies far and near, as if to silence the very breathings of 
the unformed thought! How often, after such a night, when far from my dear home, 
and deprived of the presence of those nearest to my heart, wearied, hungry, drenched, 
and so lonely and desolate as almost to question myself why I was thus situated, when 
I have seen the fruits of my labors on the eve of being destroyed, as the water, collected 
into a stream, rushed through my little camp, and forced me to stand erect, shivering 
in a cold fit like that of a severe ague, when I have been obliged to wait with the 
patience of a martyr for the return of day, trying in vain to destroy the tormenting 
mosquitoes, silently counting over the years of my youth, doubting perhaps if ever 
again I should return to my home and embrace my family!—how often, as the first 
glimpses of the morning gleamed doubtfully amongst the dusky masses of the forest- 
trees, has here come upon my ear, thrilling along the sensitive cords which connect that 
organ with the heart, the delightful music of this harbinger of day!—and how fervently, 
on such occasions, have I blessed the Being who formed the Wood Thrush, and placed 
