A GOLDFINCH IDYL
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.
It was August 2 when the nest began. I quote from my note-book:—
“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.
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.”