No. 7. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE. 677 



Another small bird with a black and white back, and a business- 

 like air, came to my tree table. It was Sir Downy Woodpecker. I 

 knew it was not Lady Downy, for she does not wear a scarlet ribbon 

 on the back of her head, which Sir Downy, being gayer in taste, as- 

 sumes. He is the smallest of the woodpeckers. He must have gone 

 home and told his little wife about his new eating house, for the next 

 day she came with him, and daintily helped herself as a lady should. 



Sometimes there is another guest table on the ground before my 

 window, and here I sprinkle bread and cake crumbs. My attention 

 is always divided between my visitors at this table and velvet-footed 

 cats that steal around the corner unbidden to the feast. Teddy is 

 as good as cats go, but he is not to be trusted with a fat snow bird 

 in reach, and bird life is full of tragedies. Snow birds and sparrows 

 are the most frequent visitors at my ground table, and many a 

 squabble for choice bits occurs. Two English sparrows with true 

 ''John Bull" love of conquest, start for the same morsel. There is 

 a battle somewhat prolonged, for both are warriors. They never 

 think Junco can snatch the coveted bit, but the snow bird knows a 

 thing or two, and hopping innocently by, and seeing that all the other 

 crumbs have disappeared, he swallows it in a surprisingly short time, 

 and the sparrows smooth their ruffled feathers, sadder and wiser 

 birds. Sometimes there is a distinct "click, click," a flash of flame 

 among the snowy branches, and the Cardinal Grosbeak flies down to 

 my table, looking among the homely spai'rows like a noble among 

 peasants. I always welcome him with a thrill of delight. In July 

 as I swing lazily in my hammock, admiring the flutter of red-feathers 

 in the hemlock above me, I grieve to think the scarlet tangier or 

 black-winged red-bird and his lovely wife, with her greenish yellow 

 coat, will pass from me with September. How I shall miss the 

 cheerj' "get there, get there," which they say over and over, as if 

 mocking my idleness. 



September comes and goes, and takes my tangier, but my red-bird 

 does not fail me. To be sure, the January red-bird is not the one of 

 July. Now he has a crest, and he would scorn to have black wings. 

 Every feather on his big, beautiful body, except around and under 

 his beak, is vermilion. Even his beak is red, over which his beady, 

 brown eyes look out, seemingly in the best of humor. And what is 

 this he says to me? Not "get there," for he knows it is so cold I 

 am getting there as fast as I can. But he whistles! When the 

 snow is deepest, and paths about the lawn need only a roof to be 

 great tunnels, when every leafless twig is bearing its little white 

 burden, the Cardinal takes his lofty perch and pours forth his loud 

 musical strain. Sometimes it is almost as if he were whistling to 

 a dog. He is the finest whistler among the birds, and in plumage one 

 of the most beautiful. He and his more soberly dressed spouse, 

 are very devoted. I have seen a pair flying through the bare trees, 

 and have noticed how they paused to wait for each other, now and 

 then uttering a tender note. Flocks of this species are rarely seen in 

 this latitude. 



Another winter bird, a hardy little bunch of feathers is the chick-a- 

 dee, or black-cap titmouse. As early as October I hear him "chick- 

 a-dee-dee-dee." Before I knew him, I supposed he said "chick-a-dee- 

 dee," with the accent entirely on the "chick," this I believe being a 



