The Sage Thrasher 
Texas south to northern Mexico and Cape San Lucas, and casually to Guadalupe 
Island. 
Distribution in California. —Breeds locally in the high Upper Sonoran, sage¬ 
brush areas, east of the Sierra Nevada, south to the Panamint Mountains. Also 
sparingly in isolated (?) colonies southwest of the Sierras; Bakersfield (Swarth); Walker 
Pass (Grinnell); Rockwood Valley, Ventura County (Willett). Winters on the south¬ 
eastern deserts and sparingly in the San Diegan district north to Santa Paula (Ever- 
mann). 
Authorities.—Gambel ( Mim-us montanus), Proc. Acad. Nat. Sci. Phila., vol. 
iii.. 1846, p. 113 (Calif.); Cones, Birds Col. Val., 1878, p. 48 (syn., desc., life hist.); 
Fisher, N. Am. Fauna, no. 7, 1893, p. 126 (localities in s. e. Calif.); Willett, Pac. Coast 
Avifauna, no. 7, 1912, p. 99 (status in s. Calif.; breeding near Mt. Pinos); Stone, Condor, 
vol. xviii., 1916, p. 9 (hist, of disc.). 
IN A LAND so blessed with arid and semi-arid vegetation, we are 
apt to overlook the virtues of that homely plant, the “sage” ( Artemisia 
tridentata). To be sure, its area of maximum distribution lies to north¬ 
ward and eastward, but we have here and there wholesome touches 
of it; while upon our eastern, and especially our northeastern borders 
lie great areas which entitle California to recognition among the Also 
Blest. It is a wonderful weed, not alone for its pungent odor—the 
sweetest of life’s bitters—but for its hospitality, its sturdy heroism, 
and, above all, for its fidelity—unflinching in its task of covering the 
hills, be they never so unending. I love the sage! So does our hero, 
miscalled, “Oreoscoptes," “Mountain Viewer.” Call him rather Agapatos 
Artemidos, Beloved of Artemis, from whom his favorite flower is named. 
Born of the sage, he has no outlook beyond it, and needs none. Listen! 
The hour is sunrise. As we face the east, heavy shadows still 
huddle about us and blend with the ill-defined realities. The stretching 
sage-tops tremble with oblation before the expectant sun. The pale 
dews are taking counsel for flight, but the opalescent haze, pregnant 
with sunfire, yet tender with cool greens and subtle azures, hovers over 
the altar, waiting the concomitance of the morning hymn before ascent. 
Suddenly, from a distant sage-bush bursts a geyser of song, a torrent 
of tuneful waters, gushing, as it would seem, from the bowels of the 
wilderness in an ecstasy of greeting and gratitude and praise. It is 
from the throat of the Sage Thrasher, poet of the bitter weed, that the 
tumult comes. Himself but a gray shadow, scarce visible in the early 
light, he pours out his soul and the soul of the sage in a rhapsody of holy 
joy. Impetuous, impassioned, compelling, rises this matchless music 
of the desert. To the silence of the gray-green canvas, beautiful but 
incomplete, has come the throb and thrill of life,—life brimful, delirious, 
exultant. The freshness and the gladness of it touch the soul as with a 
magic. The heart of the listener glows, his veins tingle, his face beams. 
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