a beetle, or picking a
worm from the mud, pleases like a stroke of wit or eloquence. Was he a
prince in the olden time, and do the regal grace and mien still adhere
to him in his transformation? What a finely proportioned form! How
plain, yet rich, his color,--the bright russet of his back, the clear
white of his breast, with the distinct heart-shaped spots! It may be
objected to Robin that he is noisy and demonstrative; he hurries away or
rises to a branch with an angry note, and flirts his wings in ill-bred
suspicion. The thrasher, or red thrush, sneaks and skulks like a
culprit, hiding in the densest alders; the catbird is a coquette and a
flirt, as well as a sort of female Paul Pry; and the chewink shows his
inhospitality by espying your movements like a detective. The wood
thrush has none of these underbred traits. He regards me
unsuspiciously, or avoids me with a noble reserve--or, if I am quiet and
incurious, graciously hops toward me, as if to pay his respects, or to
make my acquaintance. I have passed under his nest within a few feet of
his mate and brood, when he sat near by on a branch eying me sharply,
but without opening his beak; but the moment I raised my hand toward his
defenseless household his anger and indignation were beautiful to
behold.

What a noble pride he has! Late one October, after his mates and
companions had long since gone South, I noticed one for several
successive days in the dense part of this next-door wood, flitting
noiselessly about, very grave and silent, as if doing penance for some
violation of the code of honor. By many gentle, indirect approaches, I
perceived that part of his tail-feathers were undeveloped. The sylvan
prince could not think of returning to court in this plight, and so,
amid the falling leaves and cold rains of autumn, was patiently biding
his time.

[Illustration: WOOD THRUSH]

It is a curious habit the wood thrush has of starting its nest with a
fragment of newspaper or other paper. Except in remote woods, I think it
nearly always puts a piece of paper in the foundation of its nest. Last
spring I chanced to be sitting near a tree in which a wood thrush had
concluded to build. She came with a piece of paper nearly as large as my
hand, placed it upon the branch, stood upon it a moment, and then flew
down to the ground. A little puff of wind caused the paper to leave the
branch a moment afterward. The thrush watched it eddy slowly down to the
ground, when she