THE TUFTED TITMOUSE. — ane 
“T don’t know for the life of me what the fuss is all about, but I know 
there is the greatest commotion going on right under my nose. On a single 
branch of a scraggly hillside tree—said branch being horizontal, twelve feet 
long, and fifteen feet above the ground—there were gathered at practically 
one and the same time the following birds: Tufted Tits, three to six, Black- 
capped Chickadees, three or four, Carolina Wrens, three, Downy Woodpeck- 
ers, three, Wood Pewees, two or three, one Red-eyed Vireo, one Yellow War- 
bler, one Phoebe, an Indigo Bunting, a Redstart, one very small Crested Fly- 
catcher and several English Sparrows—some twenty or more birds of at least 
twelve species—each vociferating, scolding, denouncing or at least anxiously 
inquiring, and many, for the lack of better employment, fighting withal. It 
only lasted half a minute after I arrived, but it was a stirring time while it 
was on, and I am all a-tremble with excitement myself. What does it all 
mean, anyway? The Tufted Titmice, I think, started the hubbub; but whether 
one of their youngsters was choking on a June bug, or had up and slapped its 
mother, I cannot tell.” So runs the writer’s note-book under date of June 17, 
1902, in recording one of the most intense little episodes of bird life ever wit- 
nessed. It was just like those Titmice, anyway—inquisitive, irascible, hyster- 
ical, always kicking up a shindy among the birds. In some of their antics 
they are like spoiled children, but their very sauciness is their salvation. 
The Titmouse is the major domo of the winter bird troop. His military 
crest marks him out for such an office, and his restless way of fussing up and 
down the line gives him a show of authority over the Nuthatches, Creepers, 
Woodpeckers, Chickadees, and Cardinals, which compose that motley com- 
pany. He is, indeed, a most important personage, in his own eyes; but no one 
else takes him over seriously, and his pretentions are slyly encouraged by the 
knowing ones, as affording a prospective diversion amidst the tedium of winter. 
The Tufted Tits come of hardy stock; altho somewhat less common in 
the northern portion of the state, there is no other evidence that they mind the 
severity of winter. The average Titmouse family, too, approaches near the 
proportions that our grandfathers believed in. With six or eight youngsters 
in a brood and two broods in a season, it is a wonder that they do not overrun 
the land. 
Nests consist of well-lined cavities like those of the Chickadee, but the 
excavations more frequently follow natural lines; and for the sake of getting 
an easy start through an inconspicuous knot-hole, the birds will range up to 
thirty or forty feet in height. Less frequently deserted Woodpeckers’ nests 
are used, and fresh holes are dug in green or rotten wood. 
The cheevy, cheevy call of the Titmouse is one of the most familiar sounds 
of the woods and village groves. More loud and clear is the Peter, Peter, or 
peto, peto note of springtime. As a distinct modification of the first named 
note there is a rare musical chd6-y, chd0-y, which has in it much of the flute- 
