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"It was Connla saved you," said Nora, "for he slew the hawk with his sling." "I owe my life to both of you," said the thrush. "You like my song, and you say you have never heard anything so sweet; but wait till you hear the nine little pipers playing." "And when shall we hear them?" said the children.
Ingred drew great breaths of sweet-scented wet air, and, with almost the same instinct as the thrush, broke into "Thank God for a Garden!" the song that Mother loved to hear Quenrede sing in the evenings when the day's work was over.
Their notes, too, reminded me, as they sang their morning song, of the mistletoe thrush. Presently they flew off together, some way up the stream. Turning round, I saw Chickango, Igubo, and several of Mr Fraser's blacks following, with guns in their hands, accompanied by a pack of dogs. I pointed out the birds to them. "'Noceros not far off," observed Chickango.
We have turned the oil and filth of our refineries into the streams that once crept purling and laughing through the wild-flowers and grasses, and the black smoke of our factories has silenced the plaintive note of the thrush and strangled the wondrous song of the nightingale. Our grandeur is ostentation and our dignity a dead-letter.
They suffer their winged friends to remain undisturbed, thinking, that as long as they stay, no enemy is near; but if they fly off, some danger is approaching, for which they immediately look out. These birds are not unlike the missal thrush, and remain by their friends till they are forced to leave them.
For Little Cloisters would be his home even if only for a few days. And then What about Mr. Thrush? What about oh, so many things? "I'll find the way all right," Dion had said at the station, after he had been assured that it was only ten minutes' walk, "or so," to Little Cloisters. The little walk would be a preparation for the very great event.
The modulation of his song is somewhat similar to that of the Red Thrush, and it is sometimes difficult to determine, at first, when the bird is out of sight, whether we are listening to the one or the other; but after a few seconds, we detect one of those quaint turns that distinguish the notes of the Cat-Bird.
He sat for a moment, staring ahead, and then answered in a hushed tone, "There was one they called the hermit thrush." "The hermit thrush," repeated Tim. "I've never sawn him. What does he say?" "He says," began the man dreamily, "he says 'Oh' " He stopped, as though afraid of what he had done. "I I forget what he said," he added confusedly. "Do you?" The boy's tone was disappointed.
A thrush is making music on a tall tree beyond the garden hedge, and I am more grateful for the distance that divides us than for the song; for, just now, he does not sing so well as sometimes of an evening, when he is most fluent, and a listener, deceived by his sweetness and melody, writes to the papers to say that he has heard the nightingale.
I made a rapid estimate of the cost of the seed, the interest of the ground, the price of labor, the value of the bushes, the anxiety of weeks of watchfulness. I looked about me on the face of Nature. The wind blew from the south so soft and treacherous! A thrush sang in the woods so deceitfully! All Nature seemed fair. But who was to give me back my peas?
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