Perhaps the modern trend away from old standards will culminate in a humanistic religion wherein a love of beauty will become so ingrained that we instinctively shun wrong because it is ugly and strive for right with its halo of beauty.
Man might do far worse than take this fine upstanding American for a guide . . . One cool May morning six ROSEBREASTS were resting in the sumacs after their nocturnal journey. They were cold and I watched while the early sun brot animation back to their beautiful forms. Slowly, warmth permeated, feathers were fluffed, and in low voices they discust the unseasonable temperature. A breakfast of sumac berries contained enuf energy to arouse their musical inclinations and they sang (one always waiting until the other had finished) a subdued rendition of their vital mellow notes. It was nearly an hour before they started across the valley in bold flashing black and white pattern, going further north.
There has been one or two pairs here every year and their intent straight-to-the-mark way, with the males' rich mellow happy song, gives them high rank in our affection. They possess gentle rather than impetuous courage but do not hesitate in attacking red squirrels which threaten their homes. Parents look after the youngsters longer than usual and I have seen them in August feed the voracious children with green peas!
Rosebreasts are among the very few birds which can stomach the potato bug. They do that and seem to like it. What if they do shell out a few peas and pinch some strawberries? — A small price to pay for the company of these beautiful, vital and melodious birds.
Eastern North America from southern British provinces, south between Atlantic coast and Great Plains to Florida and Gulf states.