A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS 625 
Female: Brownish, sulphur-yellow under wings; no rosy tint; heavy 
brown bill. 
Song: A delightful, rolling warble, often heard toward evening. 
Season: Common summer resident; May 1st to middle September. 
Fest: A perfect circle, neatly made of fibres and grass, lined with 
finer grasses, placed in a low tree, or more frequently a thorn 
bush in old pastures near the edge of woods. 
Eggs: Dirty green, with dark brown spots and speckles. 
You will always remember the day when you first see this 
Grosbeak. Its song may be familiar to you, though you are 
wholly unconscious of it ; for in the great spring chorus you 
may mistake it for a particularly melodious Robin, who has 
added a few Oriole notes to his repertoire. The Grosbeak’s 
song, however, has a retrospective quality all its own, and 
shared by neither Robin or Oriole, — a sort of dreaminess, in 
keeping with its habit of singing into the night. Gibson says 
that its song is suffused with color like a luscious tropic fruit 
rendered into sound. 
It also has a knack of rhythmic song that makes it seem to 
be repeating syllables and insisting upon their meaning. 
From the farmer’s standpoint it is of great value, as, in 
addition to many other large insects, it devours potato bugs. 
A TALKING ROSE-BREASTED GROSBEAK 
Early last summer, while standing on my back steps, I 
heard a cheerful voice say, “ You’re a pretty bird. Where are 
you ? ” I supposed it to be the voice of a Parrot, but won- 
dered how any Parrot could talk loud enough to be heard at 
that distance, for the houses on the street back of us are quite 
a way off. 
Almost before I had done laughing, the voice came again, 
clear, musical, and strong — “You’re a pretty bird. Where 
are you ? ” 
For several days I endured the suspense of waiting for time 
to investigate. Then I chased him up. There he was in the 
top of a walnut tree, his gorgeous attire telling me immediately 
that he was a Rose-breasted Grosbeak. 
At the end of a week he varied his compliment to, “ Pretty, 
pretty bird, where are you ? Where are you ? ” With a kind 
of impatient jerk on the last “ you.” 
He and his mate stayed near us all last summer, and though 
