Brown, Olive or Grayish Brown, and Brown and Gray Sparrowy Birds 
on sides and breast with heart-shaped spots of very dark 
brown. Whitish eye-ring. 
Migrations — Late April or early May. October. Summer resident 
When Nuttall wrote of “this solitary and retiring songster,” 
before the country was as thickly settled as it is to-day, it possi- 
bly had not developed the confidence in men that now distin- 
guishes the wood thrush from its shy congeners that are distinctly 
wood birds, which it can no longer strictly be said to be. In city 
parks and country places, where plenty of trees shade the village 
streets and lawns, it comes near you, half hopping, half running, 
with dignified unconsciousness and even familiarity, all the more 
delightful in a bird whose family instincts should take it into 
secluded woodlands with their shady dells. Perhaps, in its heart 
of hearts, it still prefers such retreats. Many conservative wood 
thrushes keep to their wild haunts, and it must be owned not a 
few liberals, that discard family traditions at other times, seek the 
forest at nesting time. But social as the wood thrush is and 
abundant, too, it is also eminently high-bred ; and when contrasted 
with its tawny cousin, the veery, that skulks away to hide in the 
nearest bushes as you approach, or with the hermit thrush, that 
pours out its heavenly song in the solitude of the forest, how 
gracious and full of gentle confidence it seems! Every gesture is 
graceful and elegant; even a wriggling beetle is eaten as daintily 
as caviare at the king’s table. It is only when its confidence in 
you is abused, and you pass too near the nest, that might easily 
be mistaken for a robin’s, just above your head in a sapling, that 
the wood thrush so far forgets itself as to become excited. Pit, 
pit, pit, sharply reiterated, is called out at you with a strident 
quality in the tone that is painful evidence of the fearful anxiety 
your presence gives this gentle bird. 
Too many guardians of nests, whether out of excessive hap- 
piness or excessive stupidity, have a dangerous habit of singing 
very near them. Not so the wood thrush. “Come to me,” as 
the opening notes of its flute-like song have been freely trans- 
lated, invites the intruder far away from where the blue eggs lie 
cradled in ambush. “ Uoli-a-e-o-li-noli-nol-aeolee-lee ! ” is as 
good a rendering into syllables of the luscious song as could very 
well be made. Pure, liquid, rich, and luscious, it rings out from 
the trees on the summer air and penetrates our home like a strain 
of music from a stringed quartette. 
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