A WOOD THRUSH 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 
And winds were soft and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 
Longfellow. 
C AN any one describe the song of a wood 
thrush Poets and naturalists alike 
rave over it, and even for non-bird-lovers it 
has a strange fascination. Heard in the 
soft fading light of early evening, it is most 
beautiful. Then the more noisy songsters 
who have made the long summer day radiant 
with their music are quiet, and slowly, with- 
out hurry, each clear note perfect as a pearl, 
the thrush chants its evening hymn. It falls 
like a benediction upon the silent forest, “ O 
fair 1 O sweet ! O holy ! 
The bird himself is no less fascinating than 
his song. Of a beautiful soft brown plumage 
with snowy breast spotted like a leopard’s skin, 
and large liquid eyes that look at you with 
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