The oriole.

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1851.  She gets all my threads to string up her posies; she’s as bad as a hangbird that steals my yarn on the grass.—S. Judd, ‘Margaret,’ i. 40.

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1854.  

            Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red,
Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird’s flashes blend.
J. R. Lowell, ‘An Indian-Summer Reverie.’    

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1856.  

        There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
  And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,
  And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
W. C. Bryant, ‘The Gladness of Nature.’ (N.E.D.)    

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