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 deli- 

 cate spouse and her "wee babies," opinions differ. 

 But though goldfinch nests were not set up, 

 goldfinch wooing went on with enthusiasm; the 



