But throws its whole rapt sprite Into the secrets of flowers The summer days along, Into most odorous hours It’s a murmurous sound of wings too swift for sight. —Richard Burton. THE WOOD THRUSH He has a coat of cinnamon brown, The brightest on his head and crown, A very low-cut vest of white That shines like satin in the light, And on his breast a hundred spots, As if he wore a veil with dots; With movement quick and full of grace, The highbred manner of his race; A very prince of birds is he Whose form it is a joy to see. And _music_—was there ever heard A sweeter song from any bird? Now clarion-like, so loud and clear, 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. “This pair seemed real tame; they used to hop all round on the grass where the clothes dry, and they drank out of Roy’s dish. He’s a Collie dog, you know, and they don’t bother birds at all the way bird-dogs will sometimes. “The Thrushes did eat some strawberries and currants, but mother said to credit those to company, for they pleasured her when she sat sewing on the porch of afternoons more than all the company she ever had to tea, for they had to have sugar and cream on their berries, and left plates and spoons to wash up, and the Thrushes cleared up after themselves and gave a concert every night. “You know, Gray Lady, it isn’t nice to have company and not give them any lunch, so mother says if you have nice garden birds, why should you expect more of them than of folks?” [Illustration: E. Van Alterna, Photo. WOOD THRUSH AND NEST] “Why, indeed,” said Gray Lady. “I will go and see your mother and ask her to come to Birdland. A mother in a community who thinks as she does is better than half a dozen bird wardens.”