One of the first signs that winter is thinking of releasing its grasp, and that spring, if still some way off, is nevertheless on the way, is the clear melodious song of the Song Thrush. Soon after daybreak (having breakfasted off the early worm) this bird may be heard in almost every garden that can boast of a shrub large enough to conceal him and his nest. Any sort of cultivated country forms his home, either the broad fields, scanty hedgerows, the carefully-cultivated garden of the wealthy, or even the small and dusty plot of the town-dweller. [Illustration: SONG THRUSH _Turdus musicus_] His food consists chiefly of insects, though worms form a considerable part of his diet, and snails are a delicacy of which he is extremely fond. There must be few people who have not noticed our brown friend hopping down the garden path with his peculiar sidelong leaps, now and then varied by two or three quick short steps as he conveys a snail to his favourite _abattoir_. This usually consists of a moderate-sized smooth stone, on which the unfortunate snail is beaten till his house falls from him; when this is accomplished there is a quick gulp, and he is gone! Thus refreshed, our friend will mount a near-by twig, clean his bill by rubbing it several times on either side of his perch, preen and shake out his feathers a bit, and then resting on one leg he will whistle his song, which has been rendered by some writers in the following words:—“Deal o’ wet, deal o’ wet, deal o’ wet, I do, I do, I do. Who’d do it: Pretty Dick, Pretty Dick, Pretty Dick, Who’d do it.” This will go on for some time until perhaps he happens to glance down at the lawn which he considers his especial preserve. Here he sees something which causes his song to cease in an instant. It is his rival openly flaunting himself before him. There is a swirl of wings as he rushes to the attack! They meet! Their bills snap violently, and there is every prospect of a fight. Then suddenly the rival retreats precipitately into the nearest bush, hotly pursued by our friend, and we have time to notice the peculiar way in which the tail and wings are spread as they disappear. Then we see no more. Such is the life of one of our commonest birds as we may witness it any day in early spring. By the end of March, or even earlier, its nest may be found in some sheltered nook. It is not often more than 10 feet from the ground, and is generally in the fork of some tree or bush, or on the beam of some old barn or potting shed; perhaps it may be found in the middle of a hedgerow, or occasionally even on the ground. It is composed of rough grass and bents, and lined with mud pressed round and smoothed so as to form a fairly deep cup.