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home of Mr. Call, the owner of Muskrat Haven Farm. Peea- wee, the little flycatcher called over and over, the three stretched-out notes slurred downward, then up with a questioning quality.
My imagination supplied a picture of the six-inch gray- j ish-olive bird with soft gray j underparts, perched on some bare limb. Alert and watchful for flying insects, the pewee would dart out and, with an audible snap of his bill, add j the insect to his midday meal.
From closer in came the sweet notes of a field sparrow, one of the most endearing of all bird songs. The song opens with deliberate, sweet j slurring notes and speeds i into a delicate trill. Once j heard against the insect sounds of a July day, the song 1 is never forgotten.
My guess is that this little russet-capped sparrow with a pink bill had a deep cup of a nest in one of the raspberry plants. Memories of my youthful, constant search for nests were promptly put down; I had work to do.
Overhead, goldfinches — resplendent in the purest yellow and black — dipped and dived through the air, calling per-chic-o-ree, the syllables coinciding with the bounding flight of the yellow bird.
While other birds are working hard through the summer days, feeding young both in and out of the nest, j goldfinches are still without reproductive responsibility. They wait until purple thistle goes to seed so they can build their nests of the down and feed their young the seeds.
Is there any more perfect way to spend a day at the end of July? I was happily alone with insect noises and bird song. Besides that, I came home with enough red berries for preserves.
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