The
intimacy of occult things isolates also these wise little birds.
The North speaks, however, only in the voices of three--the two
thrushes, and the white-throated sparrow. You must hear these each at
his proper time.
The hermit thrush you will rarely see. But late some afternoon, when
the sun is lifting along the trunks of the hardwood forest, if you are
very lucky and very quiet, you will hear him far in the depth of the
blackest swamps. Musically expressed, his song is very much like that
of the wood thrush--three cadenced liquid notes, a quivering pause,
then three more notes of another phrase, and so on. But the fineness of
its quality makes of it an entirely different performance. If you
symbolize the hermit thrush by the flute, you must call the wood thrush
a chime of little tinkling bells. One is a rendition; the other the
essence of liquid music. An effect of gold-embroidered richness, of
depth going down to the very soul of things, a haunting suggestion of
having touched very near to the source of tears, a conviction that the
just interpretation of the song would be an equally just interpretation
of black woods, deep shadows, cloistered sunlight, brooding
hills--these are the subtle and elusive impressions you will receive in
the middle of the ancient forest.
The olive-backed thrush you will enjoy after your day's work is quite
finished. You will see him through the tobacco haze, perched on a limb
against the evening sky.
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