240 
Bruce, A Month with the Goldfi?iches. 
fAuk 
L July 
Sapsuckers flopped about in the apple trees, young Vireos were 
followed here and there by anxious mothers, Catbirds uttered notes 
of warning by the roadsides, and infant Flycatchers and Thrushes 
regarded me with large inquiring eyes. A pair of belated Robins, 
nervous and overworked, were looking after their young ones, who 
were still in the nest, but for the most part family cares were over, 
and my only hope of watching the home life of the birds was to 
find a Goldfinch’s nest. 
In vain I searched the orchard near the house. Goldfinches 
flashed in and out among the branches, and sang of summer joys 
over my head, but they guarded well the secret of their homes. 
When I had nearly given up in despair, chance favored me, and I 
happened upon the object of my search in a maple tree in front of 
a neighboring farmhouse. Blessings never come singly, and just 
as I was rejoicing in this treasure trove the little daughter of the 
house pointed out another nest in the orchard. A third nest, also 
in a maple tree, was discovered a few days later, but this was 
already full of half fledged birds, and both maple tree dwellings 
were too high in the branches to be easily watched. 
Nothing could be better suited to my purpose than the home in 
the orchard. The Goldfinches had chosen a tiny pear tree quite 
close to the house, and the nest was barely four feet from the 
ground. There was something very charming in the confidence 
they had shown their human neighbors, and the pair won my 
heart from the first by their gentle, trustful ways. It was a satis- 
faction to watch a nest for once where I was not treated like a 
robber and murderer. I could draw my chair quite near to the 
little pear tree, and the mother bird would look at me without a 
shadow of alarm in her bright eyes. 
It was marvelous to see how quickly she recognized the voice of 
her mate in the Goldfinch chorus about her. Her neighbors in 
the maple tree might come and go, and she never stirred a feather, 
but a sudden quivering of the wings and a soft twittering response 
would announce his approach long before I could hear his voice, 
and as his song became audible to me, louder and more joyful 
grew her note of welcome. He would alight in a neighboring tree, 
speak to me first in a mild, questioning tone, like a pet canary 
talking to his mistress, and then fly down to the nest and feed his 
