Part 74

“As a near-by garden neighbour, the Rose-breast, though shy by nature, may become as intimate as the Wood Thrush, and if you are near his feeding-haunts you will notice, aside from his song, he has a way of talking when he feeds and that, with a little imagination, you can translate his words to suit yourself. I had once thought this an idea of my own, but this clipping in my scrap-book proves the contrary, and that others have made his notes into words.”

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 wondered 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 I heard him talk a hundred times, yet he always brought a feeling of gladness and a laugh.

Our friend has come back again this spring. About May 1st I heard the same endearing compliment as before.

Several of my friends whom I have told about him have asked, “Does he say the words plainly? Do you mean that he really talks?” My reply is, “He says them just as plainly as a bird ever says anything, so plainly, that even now I laugh whenever I hear him.”

He is not very easily frightened, and sometimes talks quite a while when I am standing under the tree where he is.

—Emily B. Pellet, Worcester, Mass., in Bird-Lore.

A SONG OF THE ROSE-BREASTED GROSBEAK

Hark! Hark! From the elm tree’s topmost spray, As the sun’s first spark O’erleaps the dark

He sings to the dawning day. Over and over and over, the thrilling strain: Never more clear On love-tuned ear Burst forth love’s charmed refrain.

Hark, hark, listen and hear! The robin’s whistle, the oriole’s note, Both are drowned In the golden sound That pours from the perfect throat.

Sing, spirit of might, Bird of beauty and tune,— Sable-winged as a summer’s night, With the red-rose breast as soft, as bright As a rose-red dawn in June!

Sing, sing to the rippling light, Sing to the paling moon! Sing, sing, sing Of a joy beyond our ken, Till the burdens of manhood loose their hold, And the heart grows young, and the Age of Gold Rolls back on the souls of men.

—Dora Read Goodale, in Youth’s Companion.

XXVII FLAG DAY

The Spring Sale of the work of the Kind Hearts’ Club was held the Saturday after Arbour and Bird Day. People who had seen the bird-houses that their friends had bought at Christmas drove over from towns many miles away, while those who had been before came again and seemed perfectly fascinated by the birds’ baths and drinking-troughs made from the hollowed logs.

The money thus being secure, the wayside drinking-fountain for man, beast, and bird was begun at once and before Memorial Day was completed and the water turned on, to Tommy’s great pride.

Nor were the children obliged to spend all their pennies upon the work, for besides the actual money, they had earned something of more value—the confidence and co-operation of their own parents and of the neighbourhood.

At first the work that Gray Lady had begun at Foxes Corners school was thought to be merely a passing fancy or a matter of sentiment only, but day by day many of those who were not only indifferent, but perhaps aggressive, saw that common sense went hand in hand with the common humanity that the Kind Hearts’ Club expressed.

Flag Day, that year falling upon a Friday, was to be the last regular bird lesson for the Foxes Corners school. Now that the planting season had come, and the summer vacation was near, the Friday afternoons were needed for making up back work on the part of those who had been absent and in preparing for examinations.

In some way it seemed to be an understood fact that Rose Wilde would go to Bridgeton to teach in the High School, and it was a subject about which her pupils were very unhappy.

There were to be some patriotic exercises at the school in the morning as usual; then Miss Wilde asked Gray Lady, who had been away for several days, if the children might not have their afternoon talk at Swallow Chimney instead of at the school, as the air in the low room was quite heavy and uncomfortable in the warm June afternoons.

Luncheon was hardly over on that day before Goldilocks began to show unusual signs of hurry. In answer to her mother’s question as to what made her so restless, she replied, “I’m so afraid we may be late. I promised Miss Wilde we would be over by half-past one,” and then stopped and looked confused.

“I do not see how we can be late when the class cannot begin by itself,” said Gray Lady, smiling, for she was well aware that there was something unusual in the air, but exactly what, she had purposely kept herself from guessing.