The Chickadee 21 



household than In any bird home I have visited. I have 

 seen a young flicker jab at his brother in real madness, but 

 I never saw two chickadees come to blows. Of course, 

 when young chickadees are hungry, they will cry for food 

 just as any child. Not one of the seven was the least back- 

 ward in coming forward when a morsel of food was in 

 sight. Each honestly believed his turn was next. Once 

 or twice I saw what looked like a family jar. Each one 

 of the seven was crying for food as the mother flew over. 

 She herself must have forgotten whose turn it was, for 

 she hung beneath the perch a moment to think. How she 

 ever told one from the other, so as to divide the meals 

 evenly, I don't know. There was only one chick I could 

 recognize, and that was pigeon-toed, tousled-headed 

 Johnnie. He was the runt of the family, and spoiled, if 

 ever a bird was spoiled. 



We trudged up the cafion early the next morning. 

 Four of the flock had left the nest and taken to the 

 bushes. Three stayed at the stump while we set the cam- 

 era. It is rarely indeed that one catches a real clear pho- 

 tograph of bird home life such as the mother placing a 

 green cutworm in the mouth of a hungry chick; a satisfied 

 look on the face of the second bantling who had just got 

 a morsel; and hope on the face of the third who is sure 

 to get the next mouthful: the present, the past, and the 

 future in one scene. 



There are perhaps many other families of chickadees 

 that live and hunt through the trees along Fulton Creek. 

 I rarely visit the place that I do not hear them. But ever 

 since the seven left the old alder stump that has now 

 fallen to pieces, I never see a flock about this haunt that 



