Where Wood Robins Sing 
turkey buzzard hunting, and to watch its majestic prog¬ 
ress brings refreshment to a man’s spirit. It seems hard 
to believe that this wanderer in the realms of light is one 
of the disagreeable fowls whose roosts we sometimes come 
upon in our walks afield. Of all filthy spots a buzzard’s 
roost is one of the most disgusting—reeking with foul 
odors and bespattered with offal, a very harpies’ den— 
the scavengers themselves when gorged being stupid, ill¬ 
smelling, scarce able to move and looking the very incarna¬ 
tion of bestiality. Under such circumstances we can only 
retain respect for the repulsive birds by remembering how 
useful their work is. They remove uncleanness which, if 
left, would make many a spot in the world unbearable, 
and if they do overeat themselves it is from a good trait, 
the love of their appointed task. 
It is worth going to the woods after a shower just to 
hear the wood robins rejoice. Their joy that the rain is 
over and gone cannot be restrained. Their song seems 
like a rainbow transmuted into melody. First is a drop¬ 
ping of liquid flute notes that sound to some fancies like 
“e-o-lee,” and to others like “come to me”; then a gurgle 
or two, a trill like a shiver of rapturous delight, and then 
back to the beginning and over again. Usually the song¬ 
ster is hidden from view in the leafy coverts of the drip¬ 
ping tree tops, but occasionally one sees him in the open 
places. A few days ago, after a hard rain, while follow¬ 
ing a woodland road, I looked through a rift in the trees, 
and there, outlined against the clearing sky, was a wood 
robin perched on a dead branch and pouring forth his 
ravishing melody—his head turned now to one side and 
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