took a new view of crow depredations, and could not see why
her children should not have a chicken or a bird for breakfast, as well
as ours. Poor hunted crow, against whom every man's hand is raised! She
feels, with reason, that every human being is a deadly enemy thirsting
for her life, that every cylinder pointed upward is loaded with death,
that every string is a cruel snare to entangle and maim her,--yet whose
offspring, dear as ours to us, clamor for food. How should she know that
it is wrong to eat chickens; or that robin babies were made to live and
grow up, and crow babies to die of starvation? The farmer ignores the
millions of insects she destroys, and shoots her for the one chicken she
takes, though she has been amply proved to be one of his most valuable
servants. The kingbird and the oriole worry her life out of her because
her babies like eggs--as who does not!

In fact, there are, emphatically, two sides to the crow question, and I
take the side of the crow.

XXIV.

A MIDSUMMER WOOING.

The "sweet June days" had passed, and bird nesting was nearly at an end.
Woods and fields were bubbling over with young bird notes, and the
pretty cradles on tree and shrub were empty and deserted. A few motherly
souls, it is true, were still occupied with their second broods, but, in
general, feathered families were complete, and the parents were busy
training their little folk for life.

One bird, however, the charming, sweet-voiced goldfinch,

"All black and gold, a flame of fire,"

still held aloof, as is his custom. He does not follow the fashion of
his fellows; he resists the allurements of the nesting month; he waits.
Whether it be for a late-coming insect necessary to the welfare of his
nestlings, or for the thistle silk which alone makes fit cushion for his
delicate spouse and her "wee babies," opinions differ.

But though goldfinch nests were not set up, goldfinch wooing went on
with enthusiasm; the summer air rang with sweetest song, and the
graceful wave-like flight charmed us from morning till night. The
courtship of the bird of July is a beautiful sight. He is at all times
peculiarly joyous, but at this season his little body seems hardly able
to contain him; so great is his rapture, indeed, that it infects and
inspires the most matter-of-fact student. Our bird-loving poet Celia
Thaxter must have seen him in loverly mood when she thus addressed
him:--

"Where do you hide such a store o