The Bird of Solitude

WHEN from some deep, secluded wood you hear the rich, flute-like notes of a “ bird in the solitude singing,” turn instantly from the path, follow in silence that enticing voice, and you may at last come near the mysterious songster. If, happily, you are able to locate sound, you may be further charmed by sight of him, glowing with musical ardor; but if not, you may search the woods in vain, so motionless is he, and so completely do the soft tints of his plumage harmonize in coloring with the branch upon which he stands. He is worthy this careful following : he is the most beautiful, the finest in song, and the noblest in character of the winged order in America, He is the wood thrush.

Sometimes, when you thus come upon him, you will find madam his spouse upon a lower branch of the same tree. She will not fly ; wild panic is not in the thrush. She will stand and look at you, expressing her disapproval by a lively “ quit ! quit! ” at the same time raising the leathers of head, neck, and shoulders, till she appears to be adorned with a high ruff and shoulder cape. If you refuse to take the hint and move away, she will finally drop her voice into a low “ tut, tut,” showing her excitement by quick, nervous jerks of both wings and tail. After a little, her demonstrations will bring to her side the beautiful singer himself. Like a feather he alights on the branch, the perfect copy of his mate. A few low remarks, evidently derogatory to you, are exchanged, and away they fly together.

Should you come too near the singer, when alone, or should something in your manner arouse his suspicions, he will slip down behind the tree or shrub he is on, and depart so silently and so near the ground that you neither see nor hear him. The first intimation of his flight will be his song afar off, when it will seem to you that he is a phantom, a mere wandering voice.

The song of this bird defies description, though it has inspired both extravagant and poetical attempts in the most prosaic of writers. When heard from a distance, it sounds very deliberate: a succession of detached passages, with frequent pauses, ending in a trill, sometimes easily distinguished as such, but often so rapidly delivered that it resembles the syllable “che-e-e” with a peculiar and indescribable thrill in it. If you are near, however, you will find the pauses filled with low notes, having, apparently, no connection with the song. One cannot but fancy them to be irrepressible words of endearment, ineffably sweet and tender, and wonderfully enhancing the charm of the performance.

He is not chary of his gift. He sings at all hours of the day, excepting in the heat of noon ; but he seems most keenly to enjoy the fading light of afternoon and the evening, till long after dark. Not a little of the mystery and melancholy that poetical minds find in his music is due to the thoughtful twilight hours in which it is heard. It is in itself far from sadness. Indeed, there can be no more perfect picture of deep joy than this beautiful bird, standing tranquilly on his branch, while giving slow utterance to notes that thrill your soul.

The weather is a matter of no moment to the wood thrush ; he has a soul above externals. Other birds may be full of song, or moping on their perches ; be it wet or dry, sunshine or shade, he sings, and sings, and sings.

The strongest attraction of a certain summer home in the heart of the Allegheny Mountains is the song of this bird. Around the house feathered visitors are always numerous, but no wood thrush is ever seen. Late in the afternoon, however, when other songsters are settling themselves for the night, and, save the robin chatter, no sound of bird is heard, out of the deep woods which surround the small clearing comes the stirring evening hymn of the thrush. It begins with a clear, far-off prelude of three notes on an ascending scale ; then a deliberate rest, followed by three other and different notes, and ending in a rapturous trill. After a decorous pause another takes up the strain. There is no haste, no interruption, never a clamor of song. Each one enjoys his full length of time, and though there may be a dozen singers within hearing, there is no confusion. Each rich solo is a complete whole, perfect as a pearl. To sit on a balcony of that house through the long, tranquil hours of approaching night, listening to the grand and lofty symphony, is a never-to-be-forgotten experience ; lifting the soul above the earth, into regions of poetry and dreams.

The wood thrush is said to be so enamored of solitude and deep woods that he may be often heard, but seldom seen. This is simply because few know how to look for him. He does love the woods, but, being a remarkably intelligent bird, he is not shy, and unreasoning fright is unknown to him. He will let you approach quite near, fixing his soft, bright eyes upon you without agitation, to learn whether your object be peace or war. If you pause at a respectful distance and remain quiet, he will resume his song, undisturbed.

Then the position he selects is favorable to concealment. The robin and oriole pour out their melodies from the topmost twig of the tallest tree, in plain sight of all the world, and the cat-bird, while choosing the deepest seclusion of a shrub, keeps so constantly in motion that he cannot escape discovery. The thrush does neither. He perches upon a branch, rarely a twig. It is often the lowest branch of a tree, and quite near to the trunk. In several years of close study of the thrush, following the song and watching many singers, I have but once seen one sing at the top of a tree, though it is true that my observations were usually in the broad daylight; for the evening song it is possible that he may select a higher position.

The secret of hiding, which his inconspicuous coloring as well as his position aid, is his habit of repose. He has no frivolous flirt of the tail, like the catbird ; no jerking body, like the robin ; no incessant twitter, like the hosts of smaller birds. It is his instinct, in moments of excitement, to remain motionless and perfectly silent. If you do not look exactly at him, you may almost put your hand upon him before he stirs; and even then he will glide away almost as noiselessly as a snake. The easiest way to discover the bird in his open hiding-place is to take an opera-glass, and, having placed him as nearly as possible by ear, look carefully over every branch of the tree, till you come upon him, often so near and so plainly in sight that you are amazed at your own blindness. Nevertheless, if you remove the glass from your eye without having minutely noted his surroundings, you will not easily find him again.

If then, keeping him in full view, you remain quiet, he will accept your attitude as one of peace, and pay no more attention to you, and you may watch him as long as you choose; listening to the little ripples of talk, the low, sighing “ wee-o,” not unlike the cat-bird’s “ mew,” the rich “ tut-tut,” and the soft responses of his mate, perhaps brooding over the lovely treasure of the home in the dogberry-tree, perhaps standing as motionless and hard to see as her spouse on a neighboring branch.

You may chance thus to observe him after the morning bath, in which he delights; performing his toilet, smoothing every perfect plume, or sunning himself, puffed out like a ball, with every feather on end. You may see him, too, when suddenly his attention is arrested by some movement or sound at the foot of the tree, imperceptible to your coarser senses; and he dives off the branch, returning instantly with a worm or grub, which he will hold in his bill a long time, entirely undisturbed by its wriggles or struggles, till he makes up his mind whether you mean mischief, or have changed your position while he was engaged.

Then, too, you may sometimes chance upon a scene of agitation even in the serene life of a thrush. Following an unfamiliar call far away from the path, in a lonely spot, I came once upon a singular sight: six or eight thrushes hopping about in the lower branches of a small tree, in a way very unusual with them, giving unceasing utterance to the sound I had heard, a low, shuddering cry, and all with eyes fixed upon the ground. Every moment or two one would fly away, but its place was instantly filled by another, so that the number in the tree remained the same, and the strange cry was never still. Nestlings were all out, so I knew that it could be no accident to a little one that thus aroused them, and I stole quietly nearer through the tall weeds, where I found crouching in this ample shelter, the cause of the excitement, — a cat, doubtless on breakfast intent. On seeing me she ran, and every bird followed, hovering over her wherever she placed herself; and as long as I stayed, that day, I could tell the whereabouts of poor puss by the tumult above her.

Because of its quiet tints, the beauty of plumage of the wood thrush is often underrated. Nothing can be more attractive than the soft cinnamon browns of his back and wings, and the satiny white of breast and under parts, tinged in places with buff, and decorated profusely with lance-shaped spots of brown.

Lovers of birds alive and free have reason to rejoice that our most interesting birds are not gaudy in coloring. The indiscriminate and terrible slaughter of these beautiful creatures, to appear in some horrible, unnatural position on ladies’ hats, is surely enough to make the most long-suffering lover of nature cry out in grief and pain. To me — let me say it frankly — they look not like an adornment of feathers, but like the dead bodies of birds, foully murdered to minister to a passing fashion.

There is one interesting peculiarity of coloring in the breast feathers of this bird. Snowy white as they appear on the outside, they are for three quarters of their length a dark slate color, so that where the plumage is parted in performing the toilet, it looks like black plush. Closely examined, too, with a common magnifying-glass, every tiniest barb of the feather is found to be ringed, dark slate and white, an exquisitely beautiful object.

I know of no bird with more strongly marked character than the wood thrush. First to be noticed is his love of quiet. Not only does he prefer the solitary parts of the woods, but he especially avoids the neighborhood of his social cousin, the robin. The chattering, the constant noise, the curiosity, the general fussiness, of that garrulous bird are intolerable to his more reposeful relative. He may be found living harmoniously among many varieties of smaller birds, and he even shows no dislike of the cat-bird; but come into a robin haunt, and you may look in vain for a wood thrush.

Then his gravity. When a thrush has nothing to do, he does nothing, He scorns to amuse himself with senseless chatter, or aimless flitting from twig to twig. When he wants a worm, he seeks a worm, and eats it leisurely ; and then he stands quietly till he wants another, or something else. Even in the nest the baby thrush is dignified. No clamor comes from this youngster when his parent approaches with food. On such occasions the young robin calls vociferously, jerks himself about, flutters his wings, and in every way shows the impatience of his disposition. The young thrush sits silent, quivering with expectation, while the parent, slightly lifting the wings, pops the sweet morsel into the waiting mouth, but no impatience and no cries.

There is, however, a time when the thrush is somewhat noisy, — when the young are in danger. One day, while slowly walking through a secluded path, in a piece of woods beloved of thrushes, I came suddenly upon a young thrush, almost under my hand. It was sitting in the forks of a branch, three feet from the ground, perfectly motionless, but watching me intently. I brought my hand down carefully, and just as it was closing — softly, for fear of injury — the little creature slipped out from under, and disappeared in the bushes. The parents, as soon as it escaped, began loud though not harsh cries ; perhaps to distract my attention, perhaps to direct or cheer the little one. I have no doubt that the youngster was crouched in plain sight not three feet from where I stood; but although I searched every inch of ground, not a glimpse did I get of it, in spite of my assurance that it was near all the time.

The wood thrush is very decided in his taste about his surroundings. He prefers woods where no grass grows, since he never seeks his worms in the sod, as does the robin. No lawn, however tempting, is the scene of his labors. In a certain park where I have frequently watched him, he is bold in looking for food ; coming within three feet of a person while gathering the crumbs lie has learned to expect on the walks, and though keeping a watchful eye upon one, not disturbed so long as the observer is still. But when this variation upon his usual fare is secured, he retires to a spot more remote from park frequenters, to sing, and in due time to establish his home.

He is one of the most intelligent of our birds, and absolutely seems to reason. He plainly does not take your motives for granted, but reserves his decision till he has studied you or has seen some indication of your intentions. He looks you squarely in the face, with perfect calmness; not turning his head on one side, and never becoming uneasy under your most steady gaze. He is graceful and elegant in movement and refined in his manners, and every one who has attentively observed birds will know that these are genuine distinctions.

Then he is a paragon of good temper. One cannot conceive of a thrush as ruffled with passion, quarreling with his neighbor, or driving a strange bird away. One cannot imagine a harsh sound out of that “ most musical ” throut. And aside from fancy, as a simple matter of fact, I have never noticed the smallest sign of temper or harshness, Even the cries of distress have peculiar richness of tone.

Having for some years lovingly studied the ways of this little creature, and wishing to observe him more closely, I desired to add a wood thrush to the birds which fly about my house. To this end I made a tour of the bird stores of New York, and thus I learned, from disgusted dealers, another interesting characteristic of the high-spirited fellow. So fond is he of liberty that lie will not sing in confinement. His European cousin, the song thrush (or throstle of England), unfortunately for his freedom, reconciles himself more easily to captivity, and is to be found in all shops. My answers were a disappointing monotony : " The American thrush is no good ; he will not sing. We can give you a European thrush,”—an opinion, by the way, in which these practical gentry differ from Audubon, who is quoted as saying that they sing nearly as well in confinement as when free. This is hard to believe. The thrush’s song seems more than that of any other bird to embody the spirit of freedom, and to come from an untroubled soul.

In my search, however, I chanced upon another American thrush, the hermit thrush. He also is not a regular bird-store product, being neither gaycolored nor noisy. This individual was caught with an injured wing, and was so little regarded in that motley collection of screaming parrots and shrieking canaries that the price put upon him was insultingly low. To soften my disappointment, I brought him home, and a more interesting fellow I never saw.

Upon opening the box in which he had made the journey, he showed not the least alarm. He sat calmly on the bottom and looked at me. In a moment or two he hopped on to the edge of the box, and then, seeing a perch conveniently near, he stepped upon that, and began to straighten his feathers and put himself in order.

He had been in captivity but two or three days, yet he was never for an instant wild, and was the most quiet bird in the house, He seldom made a sound. Occasionally he uttered a high, sharp “s-e-e-p,” like an insect sound, without opening the bill ; and that was all, until he encountered the lookingglass.

Having kept him in a cage a few days, to teach him that that was his home, I opened the door, as I do with all my cages. He came out at once, which birds rarely do, investigated my room without fear, alighting on my chair, taking worms from the hand, trying to make friends with an English song thrush, twice his size, — meeting by the way with no response, — and finding his way back to his cage without trouble, which again is unusual.

As with all birds, the pincushion was a source of interest to him, and I was interested to see how differently from any other he treated the obnoxious pin heads. He did not pounce upon them, driving them farther in, as did the catbird, but he seized each head in his bill, and tried to jerk it out. This would have been somewhat too successful, only that his efforts were in a sidewise direction, and of course the pins would not come. In a few days, however, he learned how to manage them, when his great pleasure was to pull them all out and throw them on the floor, leaning over the edge of the bureau to hear each one fall on the matting, and then to go down himself, and pass each one through his bill from head to point, exactly as he did a meal-worm before swallowing it. The stiffness of the pins discouraged him ; he never tried to make a meal of them.

His experience with the looking-glass was most melancholy, till I covered it up, in pity.

The instant he caught sight of himself, — or his own reflection, rather,—he would drop his wings, raise head and tail, and in that curious position strut around before the glass ; calling softly, with the sweetest and most tender twittering, though so low it could scarcely be heard. After some time of this coaxing, he would become disheartened, and then he would stand motionless, with feathers puffed out, staring at the bird in the glass, and looking so grieved and unhappy that I could not endure it, but drew a shield before that misleading piece of furniture.

He never showed the least fear of me, and grew more familiar every day. But I had him only a month. One evening he was well and lively as usual; the next morning I found him dead on the floor, to my great surprise and grief.

Olive Thorne Miller.