Bobbie Yank 



By KATRINE BLACKINTON, Blackinton, Mass. 



THE bird-books call him the White-breasted Nuthatch — my friend out 

 there on the trunk of the maple tree — but I call him 'Bobbie Yank.' 

 The reason for my familiarity is the fact that we have been on speaking 

 terms for over a year. It began on Thanksgiving Day, 191 7, over a piece of suet 

 tied to the balcony post, and has continued in a progressive fashion, by means 

 of little devices and encouragements like sunflower seeds and nut-meats put in 

 unexpected places, until now we are old friends, even though our relations are 

 seasonal. 



Of course, spring and summer rind him with intensive family duties on his 

 hands (at which I lay a wager he is no slacker) and, with at least two batches of 

 husky youngsters coming on to be sheltered, fed, and taught, what time, I 

 would like to ask has B. Yank for as much as a thought of his winter pals? 

 Why I have it on the highest authority that he passes Downy and Chickadee, 

 whom he dotes on in the cold months, without as much recognition as the turn- 

 ing of an eyelash — rushes right by them with such rude haste that our Alice- 

 in-\\'onderland Ears and Whiskers Rabbit would feel obliged to pause and raise 

 a monocle of astonishment. So I need not feel that he singles me out for 

 personal slight, and when I tell you that he really did call on me during his rush 

 season, won't you understand how honored I felt? 



Last July, as I was giving the garden a good 'hosing' after a very hot day, I 

 heard a familiar yank close to my ear, and, turning, saw my friend, his wife, and 

 five children on the trunk of a young black walnut at the garden's edge, only 

 a pace from where I stood. If the most distinguished man in the world had made 

 a pilgrimage with his family to see me, I couldn't have felt^more 'set up.' 

 There were the proud, sleek parents and their five overgrown, fluffy youngsters, 

 a study in blue-gray! Their father's look told volumes: "Well, here they are! 

 And a fine-looking lot, if I do say so. I'll tell you a family like that represents 

 work. Now there's just the feeding alone — many's the time I've gone to bed 

 hungry after a hard day carrying grubs to those children, and the worst of it 

 was, you positively couldn't fill them !" Of course, his manner was bristling 

 with ego, but who could blame him? Certainly not I, as I stood spellbound 

 with admiration watching those young black-capped, blue-grays imitating their 

 parents. I wouldn't have given a cent for the life of a grub in that tree, with 

 those lively, new, inverted grub-enthusiasts carrying on their bill-driving cam- 

 paign with all the pristine vigor of youth. 



Months intervened before I next saw Bobbie, and then in the company of 

 a male friend, which prompted me to draw the conclusion that he had set up 

 bachelor's apartments for the winter. Upon my first glimpse of him I put some 

 nut-meats on the upper balcony and just inside my bedroom window, and 

 waited. The balcony meats made a prompt disappearance, and then, sure 



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