The Black-headed Grosbeaks 



Taken in Oregon 



BIG BILL AND HIS BROOD 



Photo by Finley &■ Bohlman 



Big Bill is one of the very few people who ever succeeded in work- 

 ing and playing at the same time. At least, singing is a sort of play, I 

 suppose. And bug-catching, believe me, is real work. Why, this 

 bird catches the bad beetles that want to spoil our rose bushes, and he 

 eats those funny little black things that get on the bark of your fruit 

 trees and stick so tight — black olive scales, we call them. And it it 

 wasn't for the busy bird, the scale insects would suck all the juice out 

 of our trees, so that they couldn't make fruit any more. So he's at it 

 early and late, and every little while he stops to sing. And when the 

 Grosbeak sings, we stop and listen. We just can't help it. It 

 sounds like a Robin sometimes, only we know that the Robins have 

 gone north, so it can't be a Robin. 



But that isn't all about the "handsome does." This jolly bird 

 and his washed-out mate make a nest somewhere in the bushes. They 

 make it out of little roots, and the walls of the nest are sometimes so 

 thin that you can count the eggs from below, one, two, three — or 

 maybe four. And as likely as not, it is the father bird who is sitting 

 on the eggs to keep them warm. And he is so happy, oh, so happy, 

 that he just can't help singing even when he is sitting on the nest and 

 ought, I suppose, to keep very still. He is thinking about the dear 

 little babies that are coming by and by out of those speckled blue 

 eggs. He loves children, so he just can't help singing. 



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