of spring rushes over us; but the yellow leaves blow against our face, the
wind sighs through the cedars, and we realise that the black hand of the
frost will soon end the brave efforts of the wild pansies.

The thrushes, ranking in some ways at the head of all our birds, drift
through the woods, brown and silent as the leaves around them. Splendid
opportunities they give us to test our powers of woodcraft. A thrush
passes like a streak of brown light and perches on a tree some distance
away. We creep from tree to tree, darting nearer when his head is turned.
At last we think we are within range, and raise our weapon. No, a leaf is
in the way, and the dancing spots of sunlight make our aim uncertain. We
move a little closer and again take aim, and this time he cannot escape
us. Carefully our double-barrelled binoculars cover him, and we get what
powder and lead could never give us--the quick glance of the hazel eye,
the trembling, half-raised feathers on his head, and a long look at the
beautifully rounded form perched on the twig, which a wanton shot would
destroy forever. The rich rufous colouring of the tail proclaims him a
singer of singers--a hermit thrush. We must be on the watch these days for
the beautiful wood thrush, the lesser spotted veery, the well named
olive-back and the rarer gray-cheeked thrush. We may look in vain among
the thrushes in our bird books for the golden-crowned and water thrush,
for these walkers of the woods are thrushes only in appearance, and belong
to the family of warblers. The long-tailed brown thrashers, lovers of the
undergrowth, are still more thrush-like in look, but in our
classifications they hold the position of giant cousins to the wrens. Even
the finches contribute a mock thrush to our list, the big,
spotted-breasted fox sparrow, but he rarely comes in number before mid
October or November. Of course we all know that our robin is a true
thrush, young robins having their breasts thickly spotted with black,
while even the old birds retain a few spots and streaks on the throat.

If we search behind the screen of leaves and grass around us we may
discover many tragedies. One fall I picked up a dead olive-backed thrush
in the Zoological Park. There were no external signs of violence, but I
found that the food canal was pretty well filled with blood. The next day
still another bird was found in the same condition, and the day after two
more. Within a week I noted in my journal eig