In fact, there are, emphatically, two sides to the crow question, and I take the side of the crow.
XXIV.
A MIDSUMMER WOOING.
The "sweet June days" had passed, and bird nesting was nearly at an end. Woods and fields were bubbling over with young bird notes, and the pretty cradles on tree and shrub were empty and deserted. A few motherly souls, it is true, were still occupied with their second broods, but, in general, feathered families were complete, and the parents were busy training their little folk for life.
One bird, however, the charming, sweet-voiced goldfinch,
"All black and gold, a flame of fire,"
still held aloof, as is his custom. He does not follow the fashion of his fellows; he resists the allurements of the nesting month; he waits. Whether it be for a late-coming insect necessary to the welfare of his nestlings, or for the thistle silk which alone makes fit cushion for his delicate spouse and her "wee babies," opinions differ.
But though goldfinch nests were not set up, goldfinch wooing went on with enthusiasm; the summer air rang with sweetest song, and the graceful wave-like flight charmed us from morning till night. The courtship of the bird of July is a beautiful sight. He is at all times peculiarly joyous, but at this season his little body seems hardly able to contain him; so great is his rapture, indeed, that it infects and inspires the most matter-of-fact student. Our bird-loving poet Celia Thaxter must have seen him in loverly mood when she thus addressed him:—