WAYS OF NATURE 
the bird had probably heard the song and learned 
it while very young. In the Trossachs, in Scotland, 
I followed a song thrush about for a long time, at- 
tracted by its peculiar song. It repeated over and 
over again three or four notes of a well-known air, 
which it might have caught from some shepherd 
boy whistling to his flock or to his cow. 
The songless birds —why has Nature denied 
them this gift? But they nearly all have some musi- 
cal call or impulse that serves them very well. The 
quail has his whistle, the woodpecker his drum, the 
pewee his plaintive cry, the chickadee his exqui- 
sitely sweet call, the highhole his long, repeated 
“wick, wick, wick,” one of the most welcome sounds 
of spring, the jay his musical gurgle, the hawk his 
scream, the crow his sturdy caw. Only one of our 
pretty birds of the orchard is reduced to an all but 
inaudible note, and that is the cedar-bird. 
