Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

him, a mere mite of a thing, sitting on our telephone wire, singing to the air + sky. “Chee-weep - - chee-weep - - chee-­weep” he sang. A stranger to me, I took extra note of his shape + color. In size he fell a little short of the gold-finch. His head was hooded slightly, like a fox-sparrow’s Greyish back, with wide bars of dark brown formed a splendid contrast to his delicate pale yellow breast. He kept peering quickly in all directions, and this watchfulness, together with the mournfulness of his cry, made him seem uneasy, as tho he feared an attack from some unknown corner.

     It might have been the sparrows, who were hilariously rampant to-day. They, on the contrary seemed very intent on their own affairs, the most weighty of which was to keep each other from the sun-flower seed-heads. The watering place was not disregarded however and the momentarily vanquished ones sought solace in flying down to it and industriously thinking.