leave the shelter of his home
though the door stood open all day. He never resented the intrusion of a
neighbor, nor disputed the possession of his own dish.

Almost as interesting as his song was a bewitching dance with which the
gray-cheeked charmed every one fortunate enough to see him. His chosen
hour was the approach of evening, when, with body very erect and head
thrown up in ecstasy, he lifted his wings high above his back,
fluttering them rapidly with a sound like soft patter of summer rain,
while he moved back and forth on his perch with the daintiest of little
steps and hops: now up, now down, now across the cage, with gentle noise
of feet and wings. No music accompanied it, and none was needed--it was
music itself. Not only did he dance away the long hours of twilight,
till so dark he could not be seen, but he greeted the dawn in the same
way; long before any other bird stirred, before the hideous morning call
of the first sparrow in the street, the soft flutter of his wings, the
light patter of his feet was heard. In the night also, if gas was
lighted, however dimly, dancing began and was continued in the darkness,
long after the light was out and every other feather at rest. A sudden
light stopped the motion, but revealed the dancer agitated, stirred,
with soft dark eyes fixed upon the observer. This dance was not an
attempt or indication of a desire to escape, as I am sure for several
reasons. I can tell the instant that longing for freedom sets in. It was
a fresh sign of the strange, mysterious emotion with which all thrushes
greet the rising and setting of the sun.

The singular use of the feet by this bird was very peculiar, and not
confined to his dancing hours. While standing on the edge of the
bathing-dish, longing, yet dreading to enter the water, on alighting
upon an unaccustomed perch, or venturing on to the desk, many times a
day he took the little steps, lifting first one, then the other foot
very slightly, and bringing it down with a sound without changing his
position. It seemed to be an evidence of excitement, as another bird
might exhibit by a quivering of the wings. The veery was also a dancer,
but in a different way. He fanned his wings violently and moved back and
forth across the top of a cage, but always in daylight, and then only on
the rare occasions when, by placing his food outside, he was coaxed from
his cage.

Bathing was--next to singing--the dear delight of the gray-cheeked's