By-Ways and Butterflies 



the topmost branch of a tall tree, 

 perhaps lOO yards away. I do not 

 know just what there was in his vocali- 

 zation that particular morning differ- 

 ing from his customary performance. 

 There have been more of these artists 

 about this spring than usual, for which 

 we are duly grateful, and their marvel- 

 ous repertory had for some time past 

 been one of the chief joys of the con- 

 gregational singing heard each time 

 the sun-glow roused this little corner 

 of the world. But something he was 

 saying brought me to a sudden halt. 

 An open space separated us. From 

 his lofty perch the thrush poured into 

 the morning sunshine his stirring stac- 

 cato potpourri. Now, as a rule, the 

 thrush or thrasher (as many call him) 

 is not so socially inclined towards those 

 of us who have no feathers as his well- 

 groomed imitator — the closest friend I 

 have in birdland — the catbird; so 

 when suddenly he left his high point of 

 vantage, and flew swiftly towards the 



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