effective. A scoop of worms at breakfast, a scoop of worms at lunch, and a scoop of worms at dinner. It meant Dave had to come home at noon.
“I don’t mind,” he said.
And he didn’t. He would fix soup and cheese, or a sandwich, and would sit at the table and watch his bird through the sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard.
She was not a spectacular bird; she didn’t have the blood reds of a cardinal or the rich yellows of a fall warbler. On dulldays she almost looked dingy. But in some lights, she was beautiful. If the sun was low and the light warm, she would glow with a reddy hue. Almost gold.
Usually, she spent only a moment or two on the feeder, preferring, it seemed, to eat her worms in the obscurity of the hedge, but one sunny afternoon she sat on the feeder for nearly five minutes, looking around and singing softly.
Dave knew that if Gerta was right, the bird would die if he stopped feeding it. By February he had bought so many mealworms that the pet store was giving him a discount. He felt a sense of pride about what he was doing—he felt honored that the bird had chosen him.
It was not long after Valentine’s Day when Gerta mentioned the bird to her friend Nick, who, she said, was a bit of a birder. She brought Nick over that evening so he could see it for himself. Nick watched for half an hour and said, “I’m not sure. Do you mind if I call my friend Bob?”
Bob was there in under an hour. He was wearing camouflage pants and a heavy sweater with a high neck. He was carrying a pair of binoculars in a canvas shoulder sack. He took one look at Dave’s bird and asked if he could use the telephone. He didn’t even use his binoculars.
“I’m phoning from Toronto,” he said into the phone, his right foot bouncing up and down excitedly. “I’m in some guy’s kitchen.” He smiled at Dave, then looked at him quizzically. “About fifteen minutes from downtown. Right?”
Dave nodded.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” he said into the phone. “
Summer
tanager.”
When he hung up, he turned and smiled at Dave and Sam. “That’s the bird of the winter you’ve got there.” He pulled out
his
bird book—the
National Geographic Field Guide to the Birdsof North America
—and flipped it open and pointed at a picture. Dave peered at the page and nodded.
The man said, “There are a few of my friends who would love to see it. Would that be okay?”
Morley came home at seven.
“Guess what we have in the backyard,” said Sam.
“What?” said Morley, throwing groceries on the kitchen counter.
Sam looked at Dave.
“What?” said Morley.
“The bird in the backyard,” said Dave. “The one I’ve been feeding worms …”
“It’s
cosmic
,” said Sam.
“It’s a summer tanager,” said Dave.
That night as Morley was brushing her teeth, Dave said, “Some people might drop by in the morning.”
“Who?” said Morley.
“To look at the bird,” said Dave.
“What bird?” said Morley.
“The bird I feed the mealworms to,” said Dave. “It’s supposed to winter in Brazil.”
“It chose our backyard over Brazil?”
“So people want to see it,” said Dave, “because it’s a rarity. It’ll be okay. These are birders we’re talking about—nice people.”
“I don’t want people poking around our backyard in the morning,” said Morley. “Can’t they wait until the weekend?”
It was so early that the sun wasn’t up when Dave heard the noise. He listened for a moment and then he thought, Raccoons. And he went back to sleep.
When he woke the second time, Arthur was beside the bed, whinging—padding to the window and back again. Raccoons aren’t that noisy, thought Dave dimly. Then it dawned on him: Someone was stealing the bikes. He leaped out of bed and opened the curtains and squinted into the backyard. There was a smudge of gray on the horizon. When his eyes focused, he gasped and stepped back from the window and said, “Sweet Jesus on a
“I don’t mind,” he said.
And he didn’t. He would fix soup and cheese, or a sandwich, and would sit at the table and watch his bird through the sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard.
She was not a spectacular bird; she didn’t have the blood reds of a cardinal or the rich yellows of a fall warbler. On dulldays she almost looked dingy. But in some lights, she was beautiful. If the sun was low and the light warm, she would glow with a reddy hue. Almost gold.
Usually, she spent only a moment or two on the feeder, preferring, it seemed, to eat her worms in the obscurity of the hedge, but one sunny afternoon she sat on the feeder for nearly five minutes, looking around and singing softly.
Dave knew that if Gerta was right, the bird would die if he stopped feeding it. By February he had bought so many mealworms that the pet store was giving him a discount. He felt a sense of pride about what he was doing—he felt honored that the bird had chosen him.
It was not long after Valentine’s Day when Gerta mentioned the bird to her friend Nick, who, she said, was a bit of a birder. She brought Nick over that evening so he could see it for himself. Nick watched for half an hour and said, “I’m not sure. Do you mind if I call my friend Bob?”
Bob was there in under an hour. He was wearing camouflage pants and a heavy sweater with a high neck. He was carrying a pair of binoculars in a canvas shoulder sack. He took one look at Dave’s bird and asked if he could use the telephone. He didn’t even use his binoculars.
“I’m phoning from Toronto,” he said into the phone, his right foot bouncing up and down excitedly. “I’m in some guy’s kitchen.” He smiled at Dave, then looked at him quizzically. “About fifteen minutes from downtown. Right?”
Dave nodded.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” he said into the phone. “
Summer
tanager.”
When he hung up, he turned and smiled at Dave and Sam. “That’s the bird of the winter you’ve got there.” He pulled out
his
bird book—the
National Geographic Field Guide to the Birdsof North America
—and flipped it open and pointed at a picture. Dave peered at the page and nodded.
The man said, “There are a few of my friends who would love to see it. Would that be okay?”
Morley came home at seven.
“Guess what we have in the backyard,” said Sam.
“What?” said Morley, throwing groceries on the kitchen counter.
Sam looked at Dave.
“What?” said Morley.
“The bird in the backyard,” said Dave. “The one I’ve been feeding worms …”
“It’s
cosmic
,” said Sam.
“It’s a summer tanager,” said Dave.
That night as Morley was brushing her teeth, Dave said, “Some people might drop by in the morning.”
“Who?” said Morley.
“To look at the bird,” said Dave.
“What bird?” said Morley.
“The bird I feed the mealworms to,” said Dave. “It’s supposed to winter in Brazil.”
“It chose our backyard over Brazil?”
“So people want to see it,” said Dave, “because it’s a rarity. It’ll be okay. These are birders we’re talking about—nice people.”
“I don’t want people poking around our backyard in the morning,” said Morley. “Can’t they wait until the weekend?”
It was so early that the sun wasn’t up when Dave heard the noise. He listened for a moment and then he thought, Raccoons. And he went back to sleep.
When he woke the second time, Arthur was beside the bed, whinging—padding to the window and back again. Raccoons aren’t that noisy, thought Dave dimly. Then it dawned on him: Someone was stealing the bikes. He leaped out of bed and opened the curtains and squinted into the backyard. There was a smudge of gray on the horizon. When his eyes focused, he gasped and stepped back from the window and said, “Sweet Jesus on a
Similar Books
