158 THE PRANKS OF THE TUFTED TITMOUSE. 



" What are 3-ou laughing at-at-at ? " he cries. 

 " I see nothing to laugh at-at-at!" But I know 

 he is himself all the while laughing in his sleeve, 

 the sly little rogue-rogue-rogue. 



Have you ever heard his loud, clarion spring 

 song or whistle,* which sounds so much like a re- 

 veille as it wakes the echoes of the woodland? 

 Peto^peto^ peto ! — repeated quite rapidly, with the 

 accent on the first syllable — it rings from the tree- 

 tops, announcing to all the forces of nature that it 

 is time to awake from their winter slumbers, paint 

 the woods and fields with green, and fill the air 

 with song. I sometimes hear that call in the 

 autumn and winter, when it is less vigorous and 

 stirring, having a pensive strain running through 

 it. I suppose the bird has his moods of sadness 

 like the rest of us, but I do not believe he will ever 

 turn pessimist. 



While I am speaking of his vocal performances, 

 I may as well describe his various alarm calls. 

 The first hint you will have of his presence as you 

 enter the woods will be an exceedingly fine, almost 

 gossamer, tseep or tnp. My observation has been 

 that he is almost always, if not always, heard be- 

 fore he allows himself to be seen, thus reversing 

 the advice that is so often given to little people. 



