e air, and flies from one tree to another;
teetering his body and jerking his tail, in an indescribable fashion,
and chattering all the while. His "inner consciousness" at such a moment
would be worth perusing. Possibly he has some feeling for the grotesque.
But I suspect not; probably what we laugh at as the antics of a clown is
all sober earnest to him.

At best, it is very little we can know about what is passing in a bird's
mind. We label him with two or three _sesquipedalia verba_, give his
territorial range, describe his notes and his habits of nidification,
and fancy we have rendered an account of the bird. But how should we
like to be inventoried in such a style? "His name was John Smith; he
lived in Boston, in a three-story brick house; he had a baritone voice,
but was not a good singer." All true enough; but do you call that a
man's biography?

The four birds last spoken of are all wanting in refinement. The jay and
the shrike are wild and rough, not to say barbarous, while the
white-eyed vireo and the chat have the character which commonly goes by
the name of oddity. All four are interesting for their strong
individuality and their picturesqueness, but it is a pleasure to turn
from them to creatures like our four common New England _Hylocichlae_, or
small thrushes. These are the real patricians. With their modest but
rich dress, and their dignified, quiet demeanor, they stand for the
true aristocratic spirit. Like all genuine aristocrats, they carry an
air of distinction, of which no one who approaches them can long remain
unconscious. When you go into their haunts they do not appear so much
frightened as offended. "Why do you intrude?" they seem to say; "these
are our woods;" and they bow you out with all ceremony. Their songs are
in keeping with this character; leisurely, unambitious, and brief, but
in beauty of voice and in high musical quality excelling all other music
of the woods. However, I would not exaggerate, and I have not found even
these thrushes perfect. The hermit, who is my favorite of the four, has
a habit of slowly raising and depressing his tail when his mind is
disturbed--a trick of which it is likely he is unconscious, but which,
to say the least, is not a mark of good breeding; and the Wilson, while
every note of his song breathes of spirituality, has nevertheless a most
vulgar alarm call, a petulant, nasal, one-syllabled _yeork_. I do not
know anything so grave against the wood thrush