The nature of the pewee is sweet and trustful. I have always found him responsive, replying almost invariably as I have imitated his note. I once had a particularly pleasant experience and succeeded in convincing a little pewee of my friendly attitude toward him. One summer I was obliged to spend many weary days in a hammock hung in a grove; I beguiled the tedious hours by endeavoring to attract birds to close proximity. A pewee came oftenest; he frequently perched on a bough within a few feet of my hammock, and “talked back” to me between dives after insects. That he knew me and was unafraid was proved, for when relatives and friends arrived later in the summer, he would fly away at their approach.

I saw much of him, even when parental responsibilities claimed him. One day, after the young had flown, I came upon him calling earnestly, evidently to a fledgling that was on the ground at my feet. I picked up the little thing; it cuddled down in my warm hand and closed its eyes. Its father continued to call, but without excitement at such a proceeding; he seemed to know that I would not hurt his baby. I put it on a bough near him and left them to work out their bird-problems together.

Not many days later, we saw four young pewees perched in a row on a wire near the house, with their parents in attendance. The father called repeatedly and the little ones made sweet inarticulate gurglings, finding their voices. They were as dear a bird-family as it has ever been my pleasure to see.

Dallas Lore Sharp, in his delightful essay, “A Palace in a Pig-pen,” thus summarizes the flycatchers:

“Not much can be said of this flycatcher family, except that it is useful—a kind of virtue that gets its chief reward in heaven. I am acquainted with only four of the other nine eastern members, [besides the phoebe], the great crested flycatcher, kingbird, wood pewee, and chebec,—and each of these has some redeeming attribute besides the habit of catching flies.

“They are all good nest-builders, good parents, and brave, independent birds; but aside from phoebe and pewee—the latter in his small way the sweetest voice of the oak woods—the whole family is an odd lot, cross-grained, cross-looking, and about as musical as a family of ducks. A duck seems to know that he cannot sing. A flycatcher knows nothing of his shortcomings. He believes that he can sing, and in time he will prove it. If desire and effort count for anything, he certainly must prove it in time. How long the family has already been training no one knows. Everybody knows, however, the success each flycatcher of them has thus far attained. It would make a good minstrel show, doubtless, if the family would appear together. In chorus, surely, they would be far from a tuneful choir. Yet individually, in the wide universal chorus of the out-of-doors, how much we should miss the kingbird’s metallic twitter and the chebec’s insistent call!”[129]