262 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS, 



No field so foul with noisome weeds 

 But there the dainty goldfinch feeds, 

 And greets with song the fervent rays 

 That flood high noon of August days. 



Here, swinging upon the tips of bending weeds, or 

 curving the uppermost twig of some tall tree, the no 

 less beautiful indigo finch sings with an ardor no other 

 bird excels. The hotter the day the sweeter the song ; 

 and if the gloaming brings no coolness, even through 

 the night this little finch will repeat the songs that gave 

 life to the fields at noon. 



And later, when the winter migrants come, nowhere 

 else am I so sure to find that prince of sparrows, the 

 royal foxy finch, and surely nowhere do the flocking 

 white-throats congregate as here, and sing with such 

 full-voiced energy, morning, noon, and night. When 

 winter nears its end they are all impatience, it would 

 seem, to reach their northern home ; for when the glim- 

 mer of the April moon fills the dense hedge-row with 

 uncertain light, these birds still sing, and even start 

 from their perches, as though their homeward journey 

 had commenced. 



That they are dreaming there can be no doubt, and 

 not the weird chat alone is given to curious antics long 

 after the world is supposed to be at rest. 



Bluebirds, of course, love the old hollow rails, and 

 perched upon the out -reaching stakes, sing their best 

 songs. 



Wrens have long since learned that an old fence is 

 their best hunting-ground. 



Woodpeckers, both great and small, even to the little 



