Monthly Bulletin 7 



OUR FIGHTING CHEBEC. 

 By Arthur J. Parker 



Lending gladness to the advent of spring, a pair of least flycatchers 

 early appeared in our orchard, close hack to the house, and settled down 

 as our most intimate summer tenants. 



None so assured as little Mr. Chehec that all was well in the best 

 of possible worlds! While yet the winds retained some boreal sting, the 

 verdure scant, and provender scarce, this feathered atomy continued to sit 

 perched before our kitchen door, and, with hardly pause for breath, his 

 little beak opened skyward, to splutter forth his brief and changeless lay. 



When at last his assiduous self-advertising had its due result, in the 

 winning of a mate, Mr. Chebec continued to sit and vent his satisfaction, 

 general and particular, unconcerned that his tuneless outcry broke jar- 

 ringly into the refrains of more gifted songsters. 



The happy couple built a nest, on a low apple-bough. No secrecy or 

 stealth about them! Through all the bright hours of several days wee 

 wifie bustled to and fro between the bunch of nestling materials we had 

 hung conveniently near and the site of the nest. A flaunting spectacle she 

 made, toting her over-big burdens of white absorbent cotton! Toward the 

 finish the male would intermit his vocal exercises occasionally to carry a 

 load himself. 



When I examined the completed structure, I suspected more than ever, 

 that this pair was a young, inexperienced couple. So insecurely was the 

 nest saddled upon a horizontal limb, odds looked heavy that the first lusty 

 breeze would capsize it — a catastrophe which precisely befell. Within a 

 week the nest and three pretty eggs lay a wreck. 



Then the instructed birdies chose a much safer lodgment, the twiggy 

 branch of a small apple-tree in the middle of the yard, close before the 

 kitchen door. This tree was where Mr. Chebec had been doing most of his 

 singing; and we fancied that he asserted his masculine authority in the 

 choice. 



The same flagrant disregard of the rules of secrecy marked their sec- 

 ond building; still it was mostly the flamboyant white cotton that they 

 hurried up the airy stairway to their new nest. 



The home being now securely established, little Mr. Chebec took up 

 his duties as protector — and, in the spirit of his family's nomenclature, 

 pushed the part to very tyranny. 



Mounting guard at various strategic points, always near by, he kept 

 jealous watch of all and every comer and goer about the sacred home tree. 



A bluebird, warbler, or other small bird that innocently approached 

 the tree found itself unexpectedly assailed, sometimes met or overtaken 

 in midair, and with more or less violence forced upon another tack. Or, 

 having lit in the tree itself, the intruder became the surprised target of a 

 bullet-like impact. Such ardor and vehemency of attack, accompanied by 

 a Castanet snapping of the tiny bill, audible (astonishingly) at a distance 

 of many yards! Mr. Chebec's brusque staccato note seemed to smack 

 now of bravado, almost of challenge. 



