Now like a whisper low and near,
And now, again, with rhythmic swells
And tinkling harmony of bells,
He seems to play accompaniment
Upon some harp-like instrument.
—Garrett Newkirk, in Bird-Lore.
MOCKERS AND THRUSHES
“How many of you know the Wood Thrush, or, if you do not know his name, can recognize him by aid of these verses?”
“I know it,” answered little Clary; “I know his colour and the way his song tinkles, but up at our house we call him Song Thrush. Why, Gray Lady, he doesn’t live in the woods; we haven’t any woods. He stays right around the garden and orchard, and last summer they made a nest in the crotch of a sugar-maple so low that I could see into it by standing on the fence. It looked just like Robin’s nest, and it had some rags woven into it, and the eggs are like the Robin’s, too.
“Mother said that I mustn’t watch too long, or they might not come back next year, but that if we didn’t bother them, they might come back, and the children, too, and bring their wives.