“A lover and close observer of these Goldfinches has written the summer life of a pair of these birds in so interesting a fashion that I will read it to you. Either the pair that she describes were very late in nesting, or it was their second brood. [Illustration: GOLDFINCH] Order—Passeres Family—Fringillidæ Genus—Astragalinus Species—Tristis A GOLDFINCH IDYL Do you know of any far-away pasture where, in blueberry time, Sparrows play hide-and-seek in the bushes, and Finches are like little golden balls tossed on the breeze? It was in such a field that my Goldfinch found the thistle-down for her soft couch—_her_ couch, observe, for it was the dull mate in greenish olive that made the bed. I was there when the maple twig was chosen for the nest—as good luck would have it—close by our cottage door and in plain sight from my window. The choice was announced by a shower of golden notes from the male bird and a responsive twitter from his mate. She began building at once, quickly outlining the nest with grasses and bark. Her approach was always heralded by a burst of song from her mate, who hovered near while she deftly wove the pretty fabric and then flew away with him to the base of supply. It was August 2 when the nest began. I quote from my note-book:— “August 3. I observed the work closely for an hour. The working partner made eighteen trips, the first eleven in twenty-two minutes, grass and thistle-down being brought; the last nine trips only down, more time being taken to weave it into the walls. The male warbled near by and twice flew into the tree and cheered his industrious mate with song. “August 5. The home growing. The female tarries much longer at the nest, fashioning the lining. “August 6. Both birds sing while flying to and from the nest. “August 7. Nest completed. The mother bird has a little ‘song of the nest’—a very happy song. Think an egg was laid to-day. “August 11. The male Goldfinch feeds his mate on the nest. Flies to her with a jubilant twitter, his mouth full of seeds. She eagerly takes from twelve to twenty morsels. They always meet and part with song. Once the brooding mate grew impatient, flew to the next tree to meet her provider, took eight or ten morsels, then flew with him to the nest and took twelve more. A generous commissary! “August 17. Breakfast on the nest; twenty-three morsels from one mouthful. How is it possible for song to escape from that bill before the unloading? Yet it never fails.” Here the record comes to an untimely stop, the reporter being suddenly called home. But the following year Nature’s serial opened at the same leaf. Toward the last of July, a steady increase in Goldfinch music, and a subtle change in its meaning marked the approach of nesting time. Again I quote from my journal:—