II 



THE CHICKADEE 



THE air was crisp. The snow crunched under foot. 

 The waters of Fulton Creek sHd noiselessly 

 through the lush grasses that hung along the bank. The 

 clump of tall firs up the hillside was roughly inked against 

 the gray clouds. The dead hush of winter had crept up 

 the canon. Suddenly a sound like the tinkling of tiny 

 bell-voices broke the stillness. Across the long, white 

 stretch between the pointed firs scurried a whole troop of 

 black and white fairies. 



I was in the same place a little over three months later. 

 The young firs stood in rows rising from the creek side, 

 each topped with the brighter green of the new spring 

 growth. The alders and dogwoods had suddenly split 

 their buds, as if shame had shaken their naked limbs. The 

 open glade shimmered with the diamond drops on the ten- 

 der shoots of new grass. The air quivered with each 

 sound and motion. Everything throbbed with expectancy. 

 Where I had seen a dozen fairies, now I saw only two. 

 Where the rest of the troop had gone, I do not know. 

 This newly wedded pair seemed happy and contented. 



I stood there and watched as one of the midgets 

 whirled over to a nearer bush What was he doing there? 

 He fidgeted about as if he had put something away and 

 couldn't remember just where he had laid it. I looked 



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