�ݬ� �� A Country Mile

July 24, 1995

�ݬ� �� By Jean Hughes

��Big swaths of trumpet vines color the fence rows and meander into the tree tops. Sitting on a high wire above one vine

is a male ruby-throated hummingbird. He is not half as big as a trumpet blossom. He is in nectar heaven.

��I have been soaked in dew all day. Early this morning I walked several miles looking for blackberries. The brambles

and weeds were over my head in many places, and the scrumptious little darlings do not jump into the bucket. They are

each hard won. I have sweated for them and anyone would have to wrestle with me, berry by berry, to get these black

gems that I plan to make into jam. My favorite place to pick berries is along a creek. Then I can walk in the water and

pick berries without being thorn-struck.

��The cardinals had stopped singing, but since there have been berries, they are singing again. Red-eyed and white-eyed

vireos, and towhees are calling, loudly, and the indigo buntings have never stopped whispering their twinkling songs.

Peewees sing from every territory.

��Beside a creek, in a wild spot under a shade tree, I sit on a log and listen to the rock and water melodies. A bubbling

tune sounds familiar, and I am amazed when I realize that it is a part of the Nutcracker Suite.

��Do composers have extra-acute hearing? Can they hear music in the wind and water, and perhaps even the singing of

the stars? Are all man-made melodies found somewhere in nature?

The unshorn fields are topped with white lace and yellowthroats sing around their edges. The evidences of a good year

for raising wild animal and bird babies dart from the roadsides and through the air.

��A baby rabbit flings itself wildly through the tomato plants, racing itself for fun. Every nesting of the cardinals must

have been successful for the first batch of mottled-red youngsters fly to my feeders by the dozen.

��Fledgling titmice and several varieties of baby woodpeckers have come to trade at my feeders. I am happy to exchange

their timid antics and their downy-new beauty for my seeds.

��The chipmunks have brought their babies. Six little ones sit on their haunches, stuffing their cheeks with corn. Their

pouches expand to dizzying size and almost drag the ground when they scamper away.

��Although all else is quiet, I hear one bird voice. It is pink-beak, the field sparrow. From spring until fall he sings to

every field flower. From far and near the songs can be heard. I walk from one field sparrow song to another. It is like

a chain of music.

��At my feeder, I often see birds who have lost an eye or have a useless leg. Some have lived in my dooryard for several

years. The most unusual was a bald cardinal with a black head. Each bird is an individual, but these were easy to identify.

��Field sparrows live the same precarious life of all wild creatures, but they never fail to make music. Their songs are

clear and easy to identify. The sound is soothing and reliable. They show themselves often enough for me to learn their

features and actions. They make themselves easy to love.

��I feel very sorry for those who believe that a human cannot love a bird, or a flower, or anything that does not show

mortal devotion in return. They set their own limits, not mine.��

�ݬ� �� 1995 Jean Hughes

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