THE MUSEUM 



165 



Now strani:;e as it may appear his 

 little mate did not agree with him in 

 his choice of boxes. She discarded 

 the one in the pear tree and began 

 building in the one on the wall by my 

 window. Did she know that cats can 

 climb trees, but that a "cliff dwelling" 

 is safe even from felines? Well, to 

 make a long story short — for if I told 

 of all the singings, the comings and 

 goings of the worms and "bugs," the 

 story would be long indeed. They 

 raised a fine family of si.\. But for all 

 the activity the little master found 

 plenty of time for his song-feasts — for 

 such they seemed to him. "Did-you- 

 sa\-you-ever-saw-such-a-pretty-litt le- 

 birdie!" — to be repeated as rapidly as 

 possible, in a semi-whisper, so as to 

 bring out all the sibilants — is what the 

 little egotish seemed to say. How 

 they spied into and under everything 

 in quest of insects, up and down every 

 palling and unner every scantling, and 

 between the stripping of the sheds, 

 even stealing "bugs" which spiders 

 had taken in their nets and for all I 

 know the spiders themselves. 



And what a time they had coaxing 

 some of the timid little fellows to try 

 wings, and fly down from fhe box to 

 the peach or service berry tree below. 

 One little fellow was very much fright- 

 ened at the idea, and used his wings 

 vigorously, but clung on desperately 

 with his feet meantime. But at last 

 courage came, and he went, down 

 alighting awkwardly in one of the 

 trees. The old birds now conducted 

 their family to the bramble-patch in 

 the orchard, there to finish their edu- 

 cation, teaching them to fly, and 

 catch insects for them.'^elves. 



This year I missed the little couple. 

 I am inclined to think that a neighbor 

 who put up a little more stylish Wren 

 house than mine entertained them the 

 past summer. If so I give him fair 

 warning that I will strive to beat him 

 at his own game next time. 



Chimney Swift occupied a chimney 

 which was used all summer, appearing 

 to be in no wise discommoded by the 



wood smoke which passed up its neck 

 all summer long. 



The Gold Finch or Thistle Bird is a 

 constant visitor of my garden all sum- 

 mer and in winter also. He is ex- 

 tremely fond of beet leaves, the edges 

 of which are all in tatters through his 

 banquets. He is a lover of lettuce 

 seed and becoming fond of that of the 

 vegetable oyster — salsify. An inter- 

 esting thing which I noted in this bird 

 was his occupancy of an old Yellow 

 Warbler's nest. Why was this.' 



Among the visiting birds which give 

 n;e pleasure, are the feathered cherry- 

 lovers. The two "pie-cherry" trees 

 in the garden are an irresistible attrac- 

 tion to the Robin, Catbird, Oriole, 

 Flicker and Red-headed Woodpecker. 

 How do these birds, none of which 

 save the Robins, live handy, know just 

 about when it is time to look for ripe 

 cherries.' That is something I have 

 not settled positively, unless their eyes 

 catch the ruddy gleam of cherries amid 

 the toliage as they fly over. For over 

 a week the Red-headed Woodpeckers 

 have been visiting our trees, the saucy 

 marauders! How they hammered on 

 the ice house and summer house roofs! 

 They are neither afraid nor ashamed 

 to tell you they are about, not they! 

 I like to see them enjoy a cherry — for 

 they do enjoy it beyond a doubt; not 

 as that wasteful spendthrift the Robin 

 does, pinching a bit of the cheek of a 

 cherry then dropping it to the ground. 

 But the Woodpecker takes a cherry in 

 his beak and flics away or into a tree 

 near, sticking it in some hole or cre- 

 vice in the bark, leisurely pecking at 

 it — sipping at it, tasting of it almost — 

 daintly, enjoying it as you would an 

 orange or a glass of lemonadv^. I have 

 thus seen him spend five minutes over 

 a single cherry. I never saw anybody 

 or anything get more pleasure or profit 

 out of a cherry than this bird does. 



Prince Red-head would be the last 

 bird I would drive out of my cherry 

 orchard if I had one. I like that 

 saucy cry; that rattling, wooden tat- 

 too; that flash of bronze-green-black, 



