136 



fwt. 



tree trunks and branches, is naturally plump 

 and fluffy 



In summer the goldfinch's black cap, 

 black wings and tail set off his bright yel- 

 low body to the best advantage, but in 

 September he loses his beauty, and, until 

 the next April or May, looks very much 

 like his plain little wife. His black trim- 

 mings are gone, and he has become flaxen- 

 brown above, and whitish-brown below, 

 altogether commonplace in appearance. 

 Perhaps it is his annual humiliation that 

 gives him such a sweet disposition ! 



He has the characteristic finch bill — a 

 short stout cone well adapted for cracking 

 the seeds that form the largest part of his 

 diet. He is called thistlebird because of 

 his fondness for the seeds of the thistles, 

 and you will soon discover that his favorite 

 perch is a thistletop. 



He builds quite late in the summer, 

 generally in July, sometimes choosing a 

 low apple tree and sometimes a crotch in the 

 branch of a larger tree, for his nest. But 

 wherever it is, the nest is always a dainty 



compact little one, lined with just such soft, 

 downy things as one would imagine such a 

 bird would select. There is only roem for 

 four or five eggs, and these are very pale 

 blue, unspotted. 



In summer the yellowbird reminds you 

 strongly of the canar}', and his song carries 

 the resemblance still further. His tender, 

 plaintive call, however, is much sweeter 

 than any of the notes of a canary. 



Bay-bee' , bdy-ce-bci, he sings out while 

 on the wing, and the rhythm of the notes 

 corresponds to that of his peculiar undula- 

 ting flight, which Mr. Burroughs has de- 

 scribed with such careful detail. 



Of all our common birds, with the ex- 

 ception of the hummingbird, the little gold- 

 finch is the daintiest, the most fairylike. 

 As he flutters his wings a few times, and 

 then lets himself float down on the air, too 

 happy to do anything but enjoy the blue 

 sky and sunshine, he seems a veritable bird 

 Ariel. Think of taking the life of such an 

 exquisite little creature, to wear him on 

 your hat ! 



Florence A. Merriam. 



JIM. 



JIM was our pet bird. I called him that 

 after my boy Jim at home, far off in 

 the States. Some day, when you grow up, 

 my little friends, you will know what a 

 man's love for his children is, and may you 

 be spared the pain of separation from an 

 only son ! Which would you like to hear 

 about first, the boy Jim or the bird Jim? 

 Probably the boy, because you will want to 

 know why he was away up in the North, 

 while his mother and I, and our little daugh- 

 ter Ruth, lived in South America, in a city 

 named Rio de Janeiro. This is the reason 

 why: You know that Brazil is a great cof- 

 fee-growing country, do you not ? Well, 

 my business was shipping coffee to the 

 United States, and so we had to live in the 

 tropics, where the people are neither indus- 



trious, nor active, nor progressive, and 

 where there were no good schools. 



Jim was eight years old — just the age to 

 learn, I am sure you are thinking — so we 

 were forced to send him home to a school 

 in New York State, while Ruth, our bright, 

 dark -eyed girl, was still so young that we 

 kept her with us yet awhile. We knew well 

 that the day would come, ere long, when 

 we would have to send her, too; but we 

 never spoke of it. 



Our house stood in a winding, rough- 

 paved street, on a high hill leading up from 

 the city, and overlooking the blue bay, in- 

 closed in its frame of mountains, whose 

 peaks are so rugged and fantastic in shape 

 and outline. We could see the ships come 

 in from sea, and sometimes, with the help 



