Through the Lost River Valley 37 



banks. On that March morning, the chickadee showed me a 

 new trait in his character. I never before had known the bird 

 to be in the least pugnacious. Yet here he was having a very 

 decided row with a nuthatch neighbor. The birds were on 

 the same limb, and perhaps their quarrel was over some choice 

 bit of insect food that lay hidden in the bark. Whatever the 

 cause, they went at each other like a pair of game-cocks. A 

 bluejay, which let me say in passing was, strangely enough, 

 the only one I saw in southern Indiana, was looking on at the 

 combat with an expression of pure amazement. The jay, 

 doubtless, had had many a pitched battle of his own, but 

 equally doubtless he had never before looked on a sight like 

 this. Here were two models of deportment descending to the 

 level of the prize-ring. I know that the jay, like the human 

 observer, wanted to cry "shame," but also, like the human 

 observer, was kept from it by the fear of being thought incon- 

 sistent. The two feathered morsels fought for fully two 

 minutes, and then the nuthatch turned tail and fled. He took 

 to the trunk of a big tree, and there, head downward, began 

 searching for food as unconcernedly as though he had never 

 forgotten for an instant what was due to his fame as a bird of 

 correct habit. The chickadee remained on the battle-ground, 

 and in a moment he uttered his ' ' phcebe' ' note, though whether 

 it was intended as a cock's crow of victory or not must remain 

 a secret. 



There have been one or two grave discussions as to 

 whether birds are deficient in the sense of smell. I came 

 to the conclusion during my southern Indiana sojourn that 

 some birds must be deficient in both the senses of taste and 

 smell. In Orange County is situated a group of springs famous 

 for their healing qualities, and — dare I say it? — infamous 



