THE THRUSH. 



UNLESS it be the nightingale or the skylark, where 

 is there in the British Isles a bird whose music 

 can equal the full rich beautiful song of the 

 Thrush ? 



There are many bird-lovers who, havir^g listened to all 

 three, declare that they like best the clear fresh singing 

 of the Thrush — at dawn, for example, or at the hour of 

 sunset, when the day's work — of food hunting for his 

 nestlings — is finished. 



The nightingale, moreover, is a shy, retiring singer, 

 whereas the Song-Thrush is a sociable fellow, who has a 

 good memory for any little kindness shown him, and 

 makes himself at home in croft and garden. Indeed, his 

 boldness — which has nothing of the impudence of the 

 sparrow — is part of his charm. 



When those of our friends who have gone abroad 

 think longingly of the old home fields and gardens, and 

 call up the picture of 



" Some wet bird-haunted English lawn," 



it is the bright eye and speckled breast of the Thrush that 

 in fancy they will see. For though he is a bird of the 

 woodland and the hedgerow lane, he loves to fly over rail 

 and fence, and drop down on to the smooth-shaven grass 

 plot with the flower-beds bordering it, and the background 

 of tall shrubs and trees to retreat to if alarmed. 



How well we all know him. He is always interesting 

 to watch, even for the hundredth time. How amusing his 



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