age and noticed every motion with
great interest, yet with an indescribably ironical air, as if he said,
"My dear sir, is _that_ the way you eat?" He showed particular interest
in seed-eating birds, apparently not understanding how they could enjoy
such food. Though full of bluster and pretense, he was as gentle as any
bird in the room, never presumed on his size as the biggest, and, though
liking to tease and worry, never really touching one. The smallest only
needed to stand and face him to see that it was all bluster and fun.

All this until spring began to stir his blood and tempt him
occasionally, after long posturing and many feints, to deliver a gentle
dig at a neighbor's ribs. Now, too, he began to show interest in
out-of-doors, standing on the window sash and looking out, which is a
familiar sign that a bird's time to depart has come. In his case I did
not consider it necessary to carry him to the park to liberate him, for
I was sure he could take care of the sparrows and protect himself--and
so it proved. When he found himself suddenly on a tall tree in the
street, and before he recovered from his surprise, those disreputable
birds gathered around him to see what he was like. They soon found out;
he quickly recovered himself, made a wild dash that scattered them like
leaves before the wind, and then planted himself on a branch to await
another attempt. But sparrows, though saucy, are knowing, and not one
came near him again. They had quite satisfied their curiosity, and after
a few moments' waiting the brown thrush went on his way rejoicing.

"O WONDROUS SINGERS."

In the swamp in secluded recesses
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

* * * * *

Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour
Your chant from the bushes;

O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul!
O wondrous singer!

WALT WHITMAN.

IX.

"O WONDROUS SINGERS."

I feel considerable reluctance in approaching the subject of my small
thrushes. None but a poet should speak of them--so beautiful, so
enchanting in song. Yet I cannot bear to let their lovely lives pass in
silence; therefore if they must needs remain unsung, they shall at least
be chronicled.

There were two: one the gray-cheeked thrush, the other the veery or
Wilson's, and they passed a year in my house, filling it with a
marv