DRAGON’S BLOOD 239 
the liquid coolness of a deep spring,” is how they 
sounded to Thoreau. ‘Air — 0 —e, air-o-u,”’ with 
a rising inflection on the “e” and a falling cadence 
on the “u,” is perhaps an accurate phrasing of the 
notes. Many of our singers give a more elaborate 
performance. The brown thrasher, that grand-opera 
singer who loves a tree-top and an audience, has a 
more brilliant song. Yet there are few listeners who 
will prefer his florid, conscious style to the simple, 
appealing notes of the wood thrush. Although his is 
perhaps the most beautiful strain in our everyday 
chorus, to me the wood thrush does not rank with 
either the veery or the hermit. His song lacks the 
veery’s magic and the ethereal quality of the hermit, 
and is marred by occasional grating bass-notes. 
My own favorite I have saved until the very last. 
There is an unmatchable melody in the song of the 
hermit thrush found in that of no other bird. The 
olive-backed thrush has a hurried unrestful song, a 
combination of the notes of the wood thrush and 
the veery. I have never heard that mountain-top 
singer, the Bicknell thrush, or him of the far North, 
the gray-cheeked, or the varied thrush of the West, 
but from the description of their songs I doubt if 
any of them possess the qualities of the hermit. 
As I write, across the ice-bound months comes the 
memory of that spring twilight when I last heard the 
hermit thrush sing. I was leaning against the gnarled 
trunk of a great beech, between two buttressed roots. 
Overhead was a green mist of unfolding leaves, and 
the silver and gray light slowly faded between the 
