I am sorry, children, that I cannot give you a specimen of my song as an
introduction to the short story of my life. One writer about my family
says it is like this: "O spheral, spheral! O holy, holy! O clear away,
clear away! O clear up, clear up!" as if I were talking to the weather.
May be my notes do sound something like that, but I prefer you should
hear me sing when I am alone in the woods, and other birds are silent.
It is ever being said of me that I am as fine a singer as the English
Nightingale. I wish I could hear this rival of mine, and while I have
no doubt his voice is a sweet one, and I am not too vain of my own, I
should like to "compare notes" with him. Why do not some of you children
ask your parents to invite a few pairs of Nightingales to come and
settle here? They would like our climate, and would, I am sure, be
welcomed by all the birds with a warmth not accorded the English
Sparrow, who has taken possession and, in spite of my love for secret
hiding places, will not let even me alone.
When you are older, children, you can read all about me in another part
of BIRDS. I will merely tell you here that I live with you only from May
to October, coming and going away in company with the other Thrushes,
though I keep pretty well to myself while here, and while building my
nest and bringing up my little ones I hide myself from the face of man,
although I do not fear his presence. That is why I am called the Hermit.
If you wish to know in what way I am unlike my cousin Thrushes in
appearance, turn to pages 84 and 182, Vol. 1, of BIRDS. There you will
see their pictures. I am one of the smallest of the family, too. Some
call me "the brown bird with the rusty tail," and other names have been
fitted to me, as Ground Gleaner, Tree Trapper, and Seed Sower. But I do
not like nicknames, and am just plain,