178 



Bird - Lore 



Ki'iu'ral uplu'axal roniicctt'd witli ilosiii)^ a 

 house and transplanting a large family, we 

 discovered another characteristic of 

 Dixie's. He loved noise — grating, pound- 

 ing, scjueaking noise. When barrels and 

 bo.xes were nailed, he would sil on tlie 

 top, within a couple of inches of the 

 crashing hammer, perfectly happy. An- 

 other attractive pastime was riding the 

 carpenter's plane in its swift journeys 

 along the surface of a board. 



By this time Dixie was about full 

 grown. He used his wings to fly ofT to a 

 nearby grove, but would always return 

 upon hearing the familiar whistled call. 

 Nights he spent sleeping in the cellar, but 

 once he stayed out. It was a wet, shiver- 

 ing, woe-begone Dixie that we welcomed 

 in the early morning. 



When the time came to leave, not one 

 of us could bear to leave behind our dic- 

 tatorial little friend and protege, but 

 there seemed no other way out. The 

 difficulty was solved, however, by buying 

 a small wicker hand-bag, cutting little 

 holes in the sides, and carrying him along 

 with us in that. Thus Dixie traveled some 

 one hundred miles from Amherst, Mass., 

 to Wellesley Hills, attracting no little 

 attention at way-stations, as he popped 

 his head in and out and squawked for food. 



But in his new home, Dixie grew wilder 

 and wilder. His trips were longer and more 

 frequent, and he came less promptly at 

 our call. Then he took to sleeping out at 

 night, but, even so, he always returned 

 very early in the morning, shrieking at the 

 door until father came out and talked to 

 him. Several times we thought he had left 

 for good, but after a few days he would 

 return. One Sunday afternoon in October, 

 father was working in the cellar. All 

 afternoon Dixie hung around the window, 

 seemingly much distressed about some- 

 thing. That night he disappeared as usual. 

 But when, after a week or so, no Dixie 

 screamed at the door, we knew he had 

 gone South. 



Spring came around again, and when the 

 first Robin hopped on the lawn, we thought 

 of Dixie. Would he come back? Had he, 



perhaps, already returned to Amherst? 

 But early one morning there was the fa- 

 miliar squawking at the door. There was 

 no mistaking that hoarse, imperative note 

 — Dixie had returned! After having been 

 brought up in Amherst, and later spending 

 only a short time in Wellesley Hills, he 

 had returned to the latter place from 

 whence he had gone South. 



Yes, there was Dixie at the door, but a 

 confused, puzzled Dixie. He had come 

 back to the old place; habit and perhaps 

 some vague memory urged him to come 

 and be fed and petted. But instinct, 

 stronger than habit, and a newly acquired 

 fear kept him from coming down to us as 

 he had always done. Down he would 

 swoop to within a foot of the porch, and 

 back he would dart to sit on the nearest 

 tree, squawk despairingly, and then repeat 

 the process. 



Dixie spent that whole summer with us, 

 but after the first few mornings he never 

 ventured up to the house. We knew he 

 was in the vicinity by his shrill, angry call, 

 particularly in the early mornings and late 

 evenings. We even guessed at the location 

 of his nest and pitied his family, unless the 

 southern climate had changed his dispo- 

 sition, but Dixie had grown wary and dis- 

 trustful, and, although always around the 

 house and grounds, would never come 

 down to us in his old friendly way. 



For three springs following, when the 

 Robins came back, we were positive that 

 Dixie was with them, for at sun-up and 

 sun-down we would hear his angry, im- 

 patient squawk from the nearby trees. 

 But these last two years we have not been 

 so sure. That peculiar note of his has lost 

 some of its harshness, and we may be mis- 

 taken, when, at a shrill call, we say, 

 "There's Dixie !" That Robin, sitting there 

 in the dusk on the tree across the way, 

 breaking the soft stillness with an im- 

 patient squawk, may be Dixie and it may 

 not — we hope so! But we like to think, 

 anyway, that cross-tempered, dictatorial 

 little Dixie is still alive and that he comes 

 back to us in the spring. — Margaret 

 Pratt, Wellesley Hills, Mass. 



