“August 3. I observed the work closely for an hour. The working partner
made eighteen trips, the first eleven in twenty-two minutes, grass and
thistle-down being brought; the last nine trips only down, more time
being taken to weave it into the walls. The male warbled near by and
twice flew into the tree and cheered his industrious mate with song.
“August 5. The home growing. The female tarries much longer at the nest,
fashioning the lining.
“August 6. Both birds sing while flying to and from the nest.
“August 7. Nest completed. The mother bird has a little ‘song of the
nest’—a very happy song. Think an egg was laid to-day.
“August 11. The male Goldfinch feeds his mate on the nest. Flies to her
with a jubilant twitter, his mouth full of seeds. She eagerly takes from
twelve to twenty morsels. They always meet and part with song. Once the
brooding mate grew impatient, flew to the next tree to meet her
provider, took eight or ten morsels, then flew with him to the nest and
took twelve more. A generous commissary!
“August 17. Breakfast on the nest; twenty-three morsels from one
mouthful. How is it possible for song to escape from that bill before
the unloading? Yet it never fails.”
Here the record comes to an untimely stop, the reporter being suddenly
called home. But the following year Nature’s serial opened at the same
leaf.
Toward the last of July, a steady increase in Goldfinch music, and a
subtle change in its meaning marked the approach of nesting time. Again
I quote from my journal:—
“August 8. My careful search was rewarded by the discovery of a
Goldfinch’s nest, barely outlined, in the rock maple near the former
site, but on the road side of the tree. That my bird friends had
returned to the old treestead I could not doubt, as they bore my
scrutiny with unconcern. In six days the nest was completed. The builder
flew to the brook and drank with her mate, but rarely stayed away long
enough for food supply; that was carried to her and received on the
nest.
“August 18. An episode: a rival male flew to the home tree with the male
Goldfinch, both singing delightfully and circling about the nest. The
mate, much excited, several times flew from the nest and joined in the
discussion. Two bouts between the males ended in the discomfiture of
number two and the return of my Goldfinch with a victor’s song.
“August 20. The course of true love now ran smooth, and Goldfinch, sure
of his intrenched affection, sang less volubly. The female, delicately
sensitive of ear, apparently recognizes the voice of her mate and never
fails to respond. Other Goldfinches flew by in song, calling and
singing, but only one appealed to her.
“August 25 was a red-letter day in Goldfinch annals; then, and only
then, I saw the male on the nest fed by his mate. The male then shares
incubation? He certainly gave it a trial, but so far as my observation
goes, found it too confining to be repeated.
“August 29. ‘Out to-day,’ as the newsboy cries—the female’s elevation
on the nest determined that. Her eagerness now overcame caution, and she
flew straight to the nest instead of in a roundabout course. Both
parents fed the young.
“August 30. In a single trip the male Goldfinch brought forty morsels to
the family, his mate eager to get her ‘thirds,’ but as soon as he had
gone she slipped off the nest and fed the young. This method was pursued
for three days.
“Sept. 1. The female very active at the nest, making toilets of young,
reassuring them with tender syllables when a red squirrel ran up the
tree with alarming sounds. I saw three open mouths. The brooding bird
went for food and returned stealthily to the nest. The male came once,
but brought nothing, and henceforth was an idle partner.
“Sept. 6. Young birds, having found their voices, announced meal time
with joyous twitter. They were fed, on an average, once in forty-five
minutes and were now forming cleanly habits, like young Swallows,
voiding excrement over the rim of the nest.
“Sept. 8. The old bird no longer perching at the nest to feed her young,
but on the branch, to lure them from their cradle. They shook their
wings vigorously and preened their tiny feathers.
“Sept. 11. Young Finches ventured to the edge of the nest and peered
curiously into the unknown.
“Sept. 11. An empty nest.”
—Ella Gilbert Ives, in _Bird-Lore_.
* * * * *
“In spite of the rosy wing-linings and shield set above his white
breast, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak is the least conspicuous of the
Singers in Costume. The reason for this is, that unless you are either
directly under or before him, the richly coloured breast may escape
notice and only the dark back appear. Yet to one who knows birds, even
the back will serve to name him, for no other familiar songster has so
much black and white about him—black head and back, a white rump,
black-and-white wings, and black-and-white tail.
[Illustration: National Association of Audubon Societies ROSE-BREASTED
GROSBEAK
(Upper Figure, Male; Lower Figure, Female)]
Order—Passeres Family—Fringillidæ
Genus—Zamelodia Species—Ludoviciana
“This Grosbeak delights in young woodlands where the trees are small and
well branched, and the big, rather loosely woven nest of weeds, twigs,
and various wood fibres is seldom placed as high as even the Robin’s or
Tanager’s, and yet, in spite of the fact that female birds are supposed
to have dull feathers because they will be less seen when on the nest, I
have seen a gorgeous male brooding the eggs in bright daylight, the nest
being on a low sapling in a rather thickly wooded brush-lot.
“The Rose-breast is very useful as a killer of large beetles and
insects, and from his prowess with the striped potato-beetle has been
called locally the ‘Potato Bird’; but it is for its song that we love
and prize him as one of the birds that to miss from the garden, means
that one of the best features of the season has been lost.
“Listen to what Audubon said of this song, that great pioneer
naturalist, whose pure nature and spiritual kinship with the birds never
forsook him in hours of adversity.
“‘One year, in the month of August, I was trudging along the shores of
the Mohawk River, when night overtook me. Being little acquainted with
that part of the country, I resolved to camp where I was. The evening
was calm and beautiful, the sky sparkled with stars, which were
reflected by the smooth waters, and the deep shade of the rocks and
trees of the opposite shore fell on the bosom of the stream, while
gently from afar came on the ear the muttering sound of the cataract. My
little fire was soon lighted under a rock, and, spreading out my scanty
stock of provisions, I reclined on my grassy couch. As I looked around
on the fading features of the beautiful landscape, my heart turned
toward my distant home, where my friends were doubtless wishing me, as I
wished them, a happy night and peaceful slumbers. Then were heard the
barkings of the watch-dog and I tapped my faithful companion to prevent
his answering them. The thoughts of my worldly mission then came over my
mind, and having thanked the Creator of all for His never-failing mercy,
I closed my eyes and was passing away into the world of dreaming
existence, when suddenly there burst on my soul the serenade of the
Rose-breasted Bird, so rich, so mellow, so loud in the stillness of the
night, that sleep fled from my eyelids. Never did I enjoy music more: it
thrilled through my heart and surrounded me with an atmosphere of bliss.
One might easily have imagined that even the Owl, charmed by such
delightful music, remained reverently silent. Long after the sounds
ceased did I enjoy them, and when all had again become still, I
stretched out my wearied limbs and gave myself up to the luxury of
repose.’
“As a near-by garden neighbour, the Rose-breast, though shy by nature,
may become as intimate as the Wood Thrush, and if you are near his
feeding-haunts you will notice, aside from his song, he has a way of
talking when he feeds and that, with a little imagination, you can
translate his words to suit yourself. I had once thought this an idea of
my own, but this clipping in my scrap-book proves the contrary, and that
others have made his notes into words.”