SIERRA HERMIT THRUSH.
When asked to name the best songster of Washington, I answer, unhesitatingly, the Hermit Thrush. It is not that the bird chooses for his home the icy slopes and stunted forests of the high Cascades, tho that were evidence enough of a poetic nature. It is not for any marked vivacity, or personal charm of the singer, that we praise his song; the bird is gentle, shy, and unassuming, and it is only rarely that one may even see him. It is not that he excels in technique such conscious artists as the Catbird, the Thrasher, and the Mockingbird; the mere comparison is odious. The song of the Hermit Thrush is a thing apart. It is sacred music, not secular. Having nothing of the dash and abandon of Wren or Ouzel, least of all the sportive mockery of the Long-tailed Chat, it is the pure offering of a shriven soul, holding acceptable converse with high heaven. No voice of solemn-pealing organ or cathedral choir at vespers ever hymns the parting day more fittingly than this appointed chorister of the eternal hills. Mounted on the chancel of some low-crowned fir tree, the bird looks calmly at the setting sun, and slowly phrases his worship in such dulcet tones, exalted, pure, serene, as must haunt the corridors of memory forever after.
Taken in Rainier National Park. From a Photograph Copyright, 1908, by W. L. Dawson.
FOOT OF NISQUALLY GLACIER FROM GOVERNMENT ROAD.
A CHARACTERISTIC HAUNT OF THE SIERRA HERMIT THRUSH.
You do not have to approve of the Hermit Thrush,—nor of Browning, nor of Shelley, nor of Keats. The writer once lost a subscription to “The Birds of Washington, Patrons’ Edition, De Luxe, Limited to One Hundred Copies” and all that, you know, because he ventured to defend Browning. “No; I do not want your bird-book.” Quite right, Madame, it would have been a waste of money—for you. But I have heard the Hermit Thrush.
“Ah, did you once see Shelley, plain,
And did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems, and new!