(_Turdus mustelinus_) Thrush family
_Called also_: SONG THRUSH; WOOD ROBIN; BELLBIRD
(Illustrations facing pp. 123 and 127)
_Length_--8 to 8.3 inches. About two inches shorter than the
robin.
_Male and Female_--Brown above, reddish on head and shoulders,
and shading into olive-brown on tail. Throat, breast, and
underneath white, plain in the middle, but heavily marked on
sides and breast with heart-shaped spots of very dark brown.
Whitish eye-ring.
_Migrations_--Late April or early May. October. Summer resident.
When Nuttall wrote of "this solitary and retiring songster," before
the country was as thickly settled as it is to-day, it possibly had
not developed the confidence in men that now distinguishes the wood
thrush from its shy congeners that are distinctly wood birds, which it
can no longer strictly be said to be. In city parks and country
places, where plenty of trees shade the village streets and lawns, it
comes near you, half hopping, half running, with dignified
unconsciousness and even familiarity, all the more delightful in a
bird whose family instincts should take it into secluded woodlands
with their shady dells. Perhaps, in its heart of hearts, it still
prefers such retreats. Many conservative wood thrushes keep to their
wild haunts, and it must be owned not a few liberals, that discard
family traditions at other times, seek the forest at nesting time. But
social as the wood thrush is and abundant, too, it is also eminently
high-bred; and when contrasted with its tawny cousin, the veery, that
skulks away to hide in the nearest bushes as you approach, or with the
hermit thrush, that pours out its heavenly song in the solitude of the
forest, how gracious and full of gentle confidence it seems! Every
gesture is graceful and elegant; even a wriggling beetle is eaten as
daintily as caviare at the king's table. It is only when its
confidence in you is abused, and you pass too near the nest, that
might easily be mistaken for a robin's, just above your head in a
sapling, that the wood thrush so far forgets itself as to become
excited. _Pit, pit, pit_, sharply reiterated, is called out at you
with a strident quality in the tone that is painful evidence of the
fearful anxiety your presence gives this gentle bird.
Too many guardians of nests, whether out of excessive happiness or
excessive stupidity, have a dangerous habit of singing very near them.
Not so the wood thrush. "Come to me," as the opening notes of its
flute-like song have been freely translated, invites the intruder
far away from where the blue eggs lie cradled in ambush.
"_Uoli-a-e-o-li-noli-nol-aeolee-lee!_" is as good a rendering into
syllables of the luscious song as could very well be made. Pure, liquid,
rich, and luscious, it rings out from the trees on the summer air and
penetrates our home like a strain of music from a stringed quartette.