Until a year
ago the wood-thrush was not one of the birds which ever raised its note
in our pleasure-grounds. We heard them in the woods, and looked at
them, when we intruded upon their privacy, with that sort of shyness
with which we watch strangers. We knew their "wood-notes wild," and
admired their plumage, but they did not inspire the same feeling as
their cousin the robin. But a year ago all at once here was the thrush.
Nobody could tell when he came, how he came or why he came. It seemed
an accident, for there was but one pair: it was as if through innocence
or ignorance, instead of building their nests in their old chosen
haunts, they had wandered away and lost themselves in the spacious
grounds of a gentleman's country-seat. They had no dismay, no doubts,
however: they took possession of the lawn with the utmost boldness.
They were rarely out of sight, hopping from morning until night about
the turf, flying from tree to tree with their impulsive movements, more
graceful than the robins. They were never silent, uttering perpetually
their mellow flute-like cry and singing their simple but ecstatic
melody.
That was last year; and this year, 1880, the thrushes are everywhere in
this Connecticut village by the Sound.
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