ddled to the burr-oak
bough. Still, through the peaceful morning air comes the loud, clear,
cheery call of the Bob White--a note that has in it health and vigor
for the healing of many a tired heart. As for the cuckoo, well, his
mate is guarding those bluish-green eggs in the apology for a nest
built in the lower branches of a young black-oak; they will not be
hatched until the very last of the month. He does his best to be
cheerful and to make a joyful sound. "Kut-Kut-Kut," and
"Kow-Kow-Kow"--you may often hear the latter sound in the middle of
the night. Does he try to let his lady dear know that he is near her
through the darkness, or is he happily singing in his dreams?

Perched on a mullen spike, a goldfinch is singing to his mate, whose
nest is in a sapling not far away. His jet black wings fold over his
yellow back, shaping it into a pointed shield of gold. He is so happy
and so fond that he can not bear long to remain out of her sight. Now
he sings a tender serenade, then his joy rises to ecstasy. He takes
wings and floats up and down the imaginary waves, circling higher and
higher, his sweet notes growing more rapturous until finally they
reach their climax as he goes abruptly skyward. Then his fluttering
wings close, and he drops from a height of perhaps forty or fifty
feet, to alight again on his original perch and resume his tender
serenade, singing now in a sweet, dreamy way, sounding just like a
ripple of moonlit water looks. This love-song of the goldfinch is the
climax of the summer's bird-song. If there were none other, the summer
would be worth while.

Dreamily sitting on a bare twig, the wood pewee is content. She has
raised her family, they are now able to get their own food. Though she
is worn and wasted since the spring, and may easily be told from her
husband, because he is handsome and well-groomed, yet is she content
to sit and wait for the food to come her way. Now she circles from her
perch and returns. Watching her catch an insect on the way, I hear the
sharp snap of her bill, as if two pebbles had been smartly struck
together.

* * * * *

Fanning the air with gauzy wings, the honey bee comes for a feast on
the flowers of the figwort. Visiting every open blossom, he loads up
with the honey and departs in a line for his hive. Bye-and-bye a
humble-bee wanders along, quickly finding that another has drained the
blossoms of their sweets. He passes on undismayed