YOUNG SONG THRUSHES
WAITING FOR MOTHER.
Throstles live principally upon worms, grubs, and snails, and they have a habit of taking the last-named to some favourite stone, where they hammer the shell until it is sufficiently fractured to enable them to extract the luscious morsel inside. These stones are known as “Thrushes’ Anvils.” Occasionally when they find a snail with a house upon its back too hard and strong to be broken in this way, they carry it to some height in the air and drop it on a flag or other hard substance. The shell is thus fractured, and the sensible captor descends and devours its prey. The bird also takes its share of fruit, and without any consideration for the good it does during the greater part of the year, is ruthlessly slain by gardeners, who might, in the great majority of instances, use netting instead of shot to the advantage of both fruit trees and birds.
When I hear a garden-loving neighbour’s gun going off, I frequently think of the poet’s compassionate appeal:
“Scare, if ye will, his timid wing away,
But oh, let not the leaden viewless shower,
Vollied from flashing tube, arrest his flight,
And fill his tuneful, gasping bill with blood.”
The members of this species that stay with us throughout the winter months, when not regaling our ears with their versatile songs, amuse even the most casual observers by their quaint ways of listening for and catching worms on lawn and meadow during open weather. They also well repay feeding with soaked dog-biscuits and other edible trifles during severe weather, when it is almost impossible for them to secure even the shortest supply of natural food. They are able to foretell coming changes in the weather far earlier than human beings, and frequently sing in anticipation of a thaw.
