244. WATER THRUSH. 
“The singing of birds is inseparably associated with the power and the desire to 
bring forth, as the involuntary and uncontrollable expression of emotions that are 
never stayed except through gratification. Surcease of passion is the fountain brimming 
over, when the stream of life flows downward like the loosened brook forever, and the 
babbling of the waters makes unconscious melody. I never heard the singing of this 
Water Thrush, nor do I find it carefully described; but it is likened, with good reason, 
to the song of the Louisiana, and this is so melodious, so loud and yet so mellow, as 
when once heard to slowly be forgotten. Both Audubon and Nuttall have expressed 
their admiration of this Philomel’s performance, which the latter says is even heard at 
night, when the sweet incessant warbling greets the ear ‘like the dulcet lay of some 
fairy vision.’ It was long before we found out that the Golden-crown sings also, for 
the harsh crescendo ditty of this bird is scarcely to be called a song; and when the 
vocal powers of the humbler Water Thrush receive full recognition, we shall doubtless 
know the three birds for a trio scarcely rivaled by the Wood Thrush and the Hermit 
and the Veery. Mr. Boardman calls the Water Thrush one of our liveliest singers, 
beginning with a sudden, almost startling burst of melody, that rings as clear as if the 
joyous bird had found a long-lost mate, and then keeps falling till the slightest breath 
of air may blow the rest away. Its secrecy in singing lends a charm to the performance, 
for though the notes are sounded loud and fearlessly, the bird dislikes intrusion; and it 
sings best far away from prying eyes, amidst the dark recesses of the swamp. 
“Should you force your way,—perhaps by paddling in a light canoe beneath the 
overhanging mysteries of the dank morass,—perhaps by clambering among the fallen 
logs that jut from treacherous black depths of ooze and slime—you may even catch a 
glimpse of this coy songster as he dashes onward into yet more secret fastness of his 
watery and seldom sun-lit home. His song is still now; silence broods, or else a sharp 
short note of anger and anxiety betrays the presence of the timid bird, too restless and 
toa nervous in his vague alarm to hide in safety, but rather dallying with danger as 
he leaps and balances on log, moss-heap, or branchlet. But this is only when he feels 
the cares and full responsibilities of home and family. Later in the season, when these 
things are off his mind, he is quite another fellow, who will meet you more than half-way 
should you chance to find him then, with a wondering, perhaps, yet with a confident 
and quite familiar, air of easy unconcern. Anywhere by the water’s edge—in the débris 
of the wide-stretched river-bottom, in the flowery tangle of the brook, around the 
margins of the little pools that dot the surface where tall oaks and hickories make 
pleasant shade—there rambles the Water Thrush. Watch him now, and see how 
prettily he walks, rustling among the fallen leaves where he threads his way like a 
mouse, or wading even up to his knees in the shallow miniature lakes, like a Sandpiper 
by the sea-shore, all intent in quest of the aquatic insets, worms, and tiny molluscs 
and crustaceans that form his varied food. But as he rambles on in this gliding course, 
the mincing steps are constantly arrested, and the dainty stroller poises in a curious 
way to see-saw on his legs, quite like a Titlark or a Spotted Sandpiper. All of his 
genus share this gait, quite different from the hopping movement with which the 
Sylvicolidz in general progress—but see! he catches sight of us, and quite breaks off 
the thread of such reflections as he casts his bright brown eye upon us with a coquettish 
