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#:. t:1 Recently, I heard the I tweet, plaintive song of a Field < Sparrow. I was visiting at the -home of Karin and Robert • McDowell near Waterford. The f lender song came to me across ithe fields and hedgerows near .their home. There were three -notes, more or less on the isame pitch, followed by a trill. (It) has been years since I have heard the song of the small r sparrow with the pink bill and fusty cap. . j The song transported me .-hack to blackberry tangles and j pun-drenched summer fields cof central North Carolina, cohere, as a lonely teenager I hpd stood among tall grasses ^Sprinkled with yellow and ^pnite daisies, purple vetch "apd red Deptford pinks to listen to the silvery notes of the plain little sparrow.
As always, I was looking for bird nests, that occupation ! of many boys. I wasn’t going to \ collect the nest and its trea• cures, but I had to find the neat cup. It was a game I played with nature.
' During those years, I found many field sparrow nests tucked among prickly blackberry bushes or on the ground in the middle of a clump of j. daisies. White, speckled-withj brown, eggs were the reward ' for my search. To this day I think the nest of a wild bird with eggs the most beautiful . sight I know.
Bird song can erase the present and send me reeling into the past. So it is with the first full robin song of spring. In the yard next to ours in the ■mall North Carolina town of New London, a great pear tree stood which, in early April, was a mass of foamy white (looms. A robin sang from the top of that tree. Today, the rollicking, clear notes of that song take me back to stand transfixed by the bird, the song and the great flowering tree.
In the slanted golden light
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