woodthrush

I listened t 'th' orchestra of the birds -- the woodthrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager an 'the rest of the thrillin' songsters -- and the music was more delicious 'n any opera I've heard in London an' Paris.

Kiddie the Scout

There was music, too, for a woodthrush sang, oh ever so sweet, and the oriole whistled as clear as a flute, while a locust rattled away like the man who plays the drum and all the noisy things in the theatre-orchestra.

Half-Past Seven Stories

Robin and bluebird, meadow-lark and song sparrow, were singing in the mornings at home; the maple-buds were red; windflowers and bloodroot were blooming while the last patches of snow still lingered; the rapture of the hermithrush in Vermont, the serene golden melody of the woodthrush on Long Island, would be heard before we were there to listen.

IX. Down an Unknown River into the Equatorial Forest

The woodthrush built in a thicket by the bungalow and borrowed a paper napkin for her nest.

Some Summer Days in Iowa

Had there been no human ear to delight, the song of the woodthrush would have been just as sweet.

Some Summer Days in Iowa

The woodthrush has a late nest in a young elm; her first family was eaten by the blue-jays just after the hatching, -- so were the young grosbeaks in a nearby tree, but the cedar waxwings were slain and eaten by the cannibalistic grackles.

Some Summer Days in Iowa

In the timber fringes and the broad bottoms along the creek you get glimpses of the catbird feasting on the grapes and the wild plums; the brown thrasher and the woodthrush, wholly silent now; the little house wren who has lost her chatter; the vireos and the orioles, the wood pewee, the crested fly catcher and the kingbird.

Some Summer Days in Iowa

There will be no dead silence for you in the forest, any longer, but you will hear sweet and delicate voices on every side, voices that you know and love; you will catch the key-note of the silver flute of the woodthrush, and the silver harp of the veery, and the silver bells of the hermit; and something in your heart will answer to them all.

The Blue Flower

And the other day, as I stood on the shores of the pond, adding my stone to the cairn where the cabin used to stand, a woodthrush off in the trees (trees that have grown great since Thoreau last looked upon them), began to chant -- or was it the Pilgrim from Dubuque?

The Hills of Hingham

Edna sang like a little woodthrush, and Eunice also had a sweet and tuneful voice.

Cricket at the Seashore