ieee eee O Ne ab Uc betel N 11 
In a class with the conceited whip-poor-will, the modest little Quaker- 
looking phoebe repeats her name to the limit of endurance. It is poor return 
for allowing her to build over our door and shutting ourselves out of the 
use of it until she gets her phoebelings out of the way. A redhead sent a 
salute from his ball on the flagpole and a blue jay returned a saucy re- 
joinder as he flew over. Only the song of my beloved catbird was missing. 
“Qurt, qurt,” came from a cherry limb and there he was eyeing me. “Sing, 
you rascal,” but he flicked his tail and said “Qurt, qurt,” as he flew away. 
A goldfinch couple have selected a pear tree next to the robins and the 
tiny nest is already a place of absorbing interest. The mother eyes us 
unwinkingly as we pass just beneath her but father goldfinch is no Don 
Quixote as the robin is; he is seldom seen or heard and offers tidbits to her 
in silence. The most perfect example of connubial bliss and parental solici- 
tude is shown by the cardinals who nested in our rosebush eighteen inches 
from the window. His instant response to her sweet call and the gallantry 
during courtship is unapproached by any of the birds I know. 
The towhee calls himself a “‘sweet bird” frequently these days and sends 
me to look into the ravine many times to see what old hen is scratching 
there so vigorously among the dried leaves. He is the acrobat of the bird 
kingdom, for who else, having but two legs, could strike out behind with 
both of them at once and send the leaves flying? 
AUGUST 
August is the month of pests, including insects, burrs and summer 
boarders. * * * * Birds, which are the life and joy of the country, are 
songless, and the few that remain utter complaining notes or warning cries 
to intruders. What is a dawn worth when the sun rises unattended by the 
prelude of the birds’ symphony! To awake morning after morning and hear 
only the raucous salute of the petulant woodpecker or the scolding of the 
wren is not my notion of the way a day should begin. I listen in vain for 
the sweet ebullitions of the catbird, but he nervously picks at his dis- 
ordered dress on the wild cherry tree and says “Quirt, quirt.” Even the 
omnipresent grackle has betaken himself and his numerous clan to the corn 
fields, where he is demonstrating his ability to neatly husk the ears, leaving 
the naked cob drying in the sun. 
The one excitement in the bird world is the visitation of a large flock 
of blue jays, the pertest, sauciest of feathered creatures, and as full of 
deviltry as of beauty. For days they have taken possession of the feeding 
places as if they had been sent for. There are many young ones whose youth 
is mostly manifest in the uncertainty of their calls. Poised on the edge of 
the water pan, one tried to drink and practice his ‘“rack-a-diddle” at the 
same time. It was perilous work; his topknot kept him from falling out and 
his tail from falling in, as they balanced him alternately. Their chief 
performances have been on the roof of the porch, where they drop the ripe 
cherries like bullets and play golf with them. The cherry tree, heavy- 
headed elderberries, added to the well stocked lunch counter and bathing 
pools have no doubt much to do with their stop-over here. 
Perhaps the birds feel that the slumbrous hot air of these August days 
