Do you know of any far-away pasture where, in blueberry time, Sparrows
play hide-and-seek in the bushes, and Finches are like little golden
balls tossed on the breeze? It was in such a field that my Goldfinch
found the thistle-down for her soft couch—_her_ couch, observe, for it
was the dull mate in greenish olive that made the bed.
I was there when the maple twig was chosen for the nest—as good luck
would have it—close by our cottage door and in plain sight from my
window. The choice was announced by a shower of golden notes from the
male bird and a responsive twitter from his mate. She began building at
once, quickly outlining the nest with grasses and bark. Her approach was
always heralded by a burst of song from her mate, who hovered near while
she deftly wove the pretty fabric and then flew away with him to the
base of supply.