Birds, Illustrated by Color Photography, Vol. 2, No. 4. Various

we bask – we two together.

      Two together!

      Winds blow south, or winds blow north,

      Day come white, or night come black,

      Home, or rivers and mountains from home,

      Singing all time, minding no time,

      If we two but keep together.

      Till of a sudden,

      May be killed, unknown to her mate,

      One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest,

      Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,

      Nor ever appeared again.

      And thence forward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,

      And at night, under the full of moon, in calmer weather,

      Over the hoarse surging of the sea,

      Or flitting from briar to briar by day,

      I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one.

      Blow! blow! blow!

      Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!

      I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

– Walt Whitman.

      THE AMERICAN GOLDFINCH

      “Look, Mamma, look!” cried a little boy, as one day late in June my mate and I alighted on a thistle already going to seed. “Such a lovely bird! How jolly he looks, with that black velvet hat drawn over his eyes!”

      “That’s a Goldfinch,” replied his mamma; “sometimes called the Jolly Bird, the Thistle Bird, the Wild Canary, and the Yellow Bird. He belongs to the family of Weed Warriors, and is very useful.”

      “He sings like a Canary,” said Bobbie. “Just hear him talking to that little brown bird alongside of him.”

      That was my mate, you see, who is rather plain looking, so to please him I sang my best song, “Per-chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree.”

      “That sounds a great deal better,” said Bobbie; “because it’s not sung by a little prisoner behind cage bars, I guess.”

      “It certainly is wilder and more joyous,” said his mamma. “He is very happy just now, for he and his mate are preparing for housekeeping. Later on, he will shed his lemon-yellow coat, and then you won’t be able to tell him from his mate and little ones.”

      “How they are gobbling up that thistle-down,” cried Bobbie. “Just look!”

      “Yes,” said his mamma, “the fluff carries the seed, like a sail to which the seed is fastened. By eating the seed, which otherwise would be carried by the wind all over the place, these birds do a great amount of good. The down they will use to line their nests.”

      “How I should like to peep into their nest,” said Bobbie; “just to peep, you know; not to rob it of its eggs, as boys do who are not well brought up.”

      My mate and I were so pleased at that, we flew off a little way, chirping and chattering as we went.

      “Up and down, up and down,” said Bobbie; “how prettily they fly.”

      “Yes,” said his mamma; “that is the way you can always tell a Goldfinch when in the air. A dip and a jerk, singing as he flies.”

      “What other seeds do they eat, mamma?” presently asked Bobbie.

      “The seeds of the dandelion, the sunflower, and wild grasses generally. In the winter, when these are not to be had, the poor little fellows have a very hard time. People with kind hearts, scatter canary seed over their lawns to the merry birds for their summer songs, and for keeping down the weeds.”

      THE GOLDFINCH

      ACCORDING to one intelligent observer, the Finches are, in Nature’s economy, entrusted with the task of keeping the weeds in subjection, and the gay and elegant little Goldfinch is probably one of the most useful, for its food is found to consist, for the greater part, of seeds most hurtful to the works of man. “The charlock that so often chokes his cereal crops is partly kept in bounds by his vigilance, and the dock, whose rank vegetation would, if allowed to cast all its seeds, spread barrenness around, is also one of his store houses, and the rank grasses, at their seeding time, are his chief support.” Another writer, whose study of this bird has been made with care, calls our American Goldfinch one of the loveliest of birds. With his elegant plumage, his rhythmical, undulatory flight, his beautiful song, and his more beautiful soul, he ought to be one of the best beloved, if not one of the most famous; but he has never yet had half his deserts. He is like the Chickadee, and yet different. He is not so extremely confiding, nor should I call him merry. But he is always cheerful, in spite of his so-called plaintive note, from which he gets one of his names, and always amiable. So far as I know, he never utters a harsh sound; even the young ones asking for food, use only smooth, musical tones. During the pairing season, his delight often becomes rapturous. To see him then, hovering and singing, – or, better still, to see the devoted pair hovering together, billing and singing, – is enough to do even a cynic good. The happy lovers! They have never read it in a book, but it is written on their hearts: