THE PROBLEM OF SUFFERING- 347 



and flitted about, silent again, in perfect peace and 

 security. Now I think they asked me to do that. To 

 one who is sympathetically disposed toward animals 

 there is frequently a very close relationship, almost an 

 understanding, between them. A pair of wood thrushes 

 used regularly to build their nest in our yard, sometimes 

 in a maple, sometimes in a pear or an apple tree, and 

 the male would select the wildest and most picturesque 

 little spots in the yard, and there he would sit at twi- 

 light — in the leafy branches of an elm, say, near the 

 nest — and sing away his wildwood love-song. They 

 became accustomed to my presence and seemed to like 

 me, and used sometimes to approach warily till within 

 a foot of me, as I sat on the bench and read. One day 

 in particular I remember, when in a chair on the porch, 

 that one of the pair came flying toward me, intending 

 (as I supposed) to alight on my shoulder; but I was 

 startled (not seeing it in time) and waved it away, 

 though even then It remained perched on the railing 

 beside me for a moment. I think that the quiet spotted 

 wood thrush is my favorite bird. A farmer one day, 

 in speaking of the birds in his locality, said to me, 

 "There is one bird that comes a little later than the 

 others in the spring, and likes the little thickets, and 

 sings there almost like a flute. I wonder what it is." 

 I listened one day in the place he had told me, and 

 soon, as I waited, floating out on the air came the notes 

 of the bird. It was the song of the wood thrush. 



I once found a song sparrow covered with warts, 

 or excrescences of some sort, which a dozen others were 

 pursuing and trying to kill. They pecked it and pecked 

 it, as it made its way along with drooping wings, but 



