The Leconte Thrasher 
or rather the immorale, 
of the whole d—d busi¬ 
ness of bird-killing. A 
moment more and I 
might have flung my 
gun into a bush and 
taken to my heels, but 
on that instant 1 spied 
a bird on the ground, at 
half the distance I had 
supposed the singer to 
be, and blazed away. 
The Thrasher bounded 
off lightly and flung back 
a snatch of song as he 
went. Again I saw him 
standing at the foot of a 
sage bush at thirty 
paces. This time, 
villain to the 
heart’s core, I 
aimed most care¬ 
fully and hurled 
the murderous 
“8’s.” Like a thing of 
magic the bird emerged un¬ 
scathed, flitted to a bush, tried 
his voice as though to see if it 
were still intact, and, mercifully, 
disappeared. A plague on this 
weary killing business! I’m not 
strong for it. 
I think we shall have to credit 
this Thrasher with a sense of humor,— 
either that or bravado, for the saucy 
tilt of its tail invites 
pursuit, and the bird is 
so sure he can outrun 
and outdodge you that 
he scarcely troubles to take to wing. Cowboys used to take up the chal¬ 
lenge, according to Mr. Gilman, and run them on horseback until the 
panting birds would take refuge in hole or bush and so be captured. 
Taken on the Colorado Desert near Mecca 
Photo by Dickey 
LECONTE THRASHER WITH NEST IN MESQUITE 
709 
