A Goldfinch Idyl 



BY ELLA GILBERT IVES 



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 build- 

 ing at once, quickly outlining the nest with grasses and bark. Her ap- 

 proach 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 today. 



"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 him from twelve to twenty morsels. They always meet and 

 part with a 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 sud- 

 denly 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: 



(148) 



