THE HERMIT THRUSH. 
By Srewart E. Wuire. 
It is the twelfth of May, and, although the sky 
forbids and the air feels like rain, I am again 
n the old pines, for it is the height of the sea- 
son and the woods are filled with the countless 
hosts of warblers. The buds have awakened 
from their long sleep, and, half opening, adorn 
the trees with a delicate lace-like sprinkling of 
green that Jater, when fully developed, is lost 
in the abundance of foliage. The air is still 
with the breathless calm that precedes a rain, 
and even the sprightly songs of the warblers, 
at other times so welcome, now seem out of 
place. Far off in the forest a low preliminary 
sighing is heard, and the clouds, that have 
stolen up unnoticed, shut off even the infre- 
quent bursts of sunlight that were before en- 
joyed. With asudden roar the storm bursts, 
accompanied by sheets of rain. 
The songs are instantly hushed and only a 
few frightened calls are heard from the misty 
figures so busily seeking shelter. As for my- 
self, Iam well hidden under the leaning body 
of a fallen tree and can afford to laugh at the 
wet. As suddenly as they came the storm 
clouds roll by and the sun, bursting forth, illu- 
mines each crystal drop, flashing it forth in 
many colors, arraying the forest in Nature’s 
most beautiful and precious jewels. Even 
while all Nature hangs breathless and appalled 
after this outburst, from the darkest depths of 
the woods far off rises a beautiful hymn of 
thanksgiving. Clear, yet soft; sweet, yet with 
such power that it can be heard in all parts of 
the woods, one listens entranced. The ex- 
pression is one of perfect peace ; no earthly joy 
rings in this strain, no harsh notes or abrupt 
pauses, but one feels that its author must have 
passed all trials and temptations, and must be 
repeating the melody of another world. Fora 
time the superb performer has no rivals, but 
soon the much-vaunted wood thrush takes up 
the strain ; although he repeats nearly the same. 
notes, there is a sharper metallic ring that jars 
on the soul after listening to his peer, the her- 
mit thrush. ; 
A change of scene. I was sleeping in my 
bed, the sound sleep that visits mortal beings 
just before the dawn. My dreams were ravish- 
ingly sweet, a confusion of violets and sweetly 
smelling thyme, a soft, delicious radiance was 
about me, and silvery tinkling notes broke 
gently on my ear. The thyme and violets 
gradually wafted their airy selves away, the 
soft radiance paled, but the silvery notes still 
remained connected and rising in glorious ca- 
dence just outside my window. The green ex- 
panse of maple leaves waving slowly to and 
fro served to hide the glorious performer from 
the golden beams of the newly risen sun, but 
could not quench the fountain of melody con- 
cealed in a little bird’s yellow throat. Fortwo 
hours I lay in dreamy forgetfulness drinking in 
the harmony, enjoying a treat of unpriced 
value, yet within the reach of all. 
I love to watch the progression of this bird 
from the moment when, early in the spring, he 
appears, skulking shyly through the woods. 
He comes as early as the middle of April, be- 
guiled to the North by the softening of the 
weather, only to find his old haunts open and 
bare. Out of his natural element and sure 
refuge, the green leaves, his confidence is gone, 
and he keeps well out of sight, uttering but a 
deprecatory cry. On your approach he skulks 
aside into the densest thicket, even that, alas! 
too thin for concealment; but it is the best to 
be had, so in its vicinity he stays, rarely as- 
cending beyond the lower limbs of the trees. 
As the foliage matures he contents himself with 
flying from his feeding ground among the dead 
leaves to the nearest branch, where he silently 
sits, eyeing you sharply, slowly waving his tail 
up and quickly down. His bright eyes no 
longer wear the hunted look, but gaze freely 
at you, conscious of supremacy in his chosen 
kingdom. 
Hermit by force of circumstances, not by in- 
clination, he avoids not the approach of living 
beings, neither does he seek their company. 
The freshest, coolest and most delightful woods 
are his ; the woods where the trees are tall, the 
underbrush soft and green, underfoot are the 
