A BROWN THRASHER 
I lingered in that vicinity all day. Just at 
twilight I heard him on the same tree-top as 
usual, and the next morning he was there 
again. To one who loves thrashers there 
could be no mistaking those mellow tones 
or that peculiar ventriloquistic song. No 
other thrasher has ever quite equalled it to 
my ears. 
I knew he would build again somewhere, 
but days passed without my discovering 
where ; and then, passing through a group 
of thorn-bushes several hundred feet from 
the site of the first nest, I heard the old, 
sweet, Go away, do.” 
This was the sound I longed most to 
hear, for it told me that my thrasher had a 
home somewhere near, and that with patience 
I might find it. The first nest was four 
feet from the ground, but this one was 
down among the grasses and under a small 
thorn-bush. So well concealed was it that 
only the flight of the startled mother bird 
betrayed it to me. In it were five eggs 
of the thrasher and one of a cowbird. I 
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