168 



CHATTER OF A CHAT. 



I'm the "Chat." You've heard me if 

 you haven't seen me. But there isn't a 

 better lookin' bird in our wood, either. 

 My oHve-green coat is a beauty. My yel- 

 low satin vest would dazzle your eyes. 

 And my white china spectacles are heir- 

 looms in our family. My wife dresses 

 just as handsome as I do. I'm a prey to 

 high spirits. Some folk call me a "wag." 

 Don't know what that is, but I don't see 

 the use in bein' doleful. Why, when I 

 get back from Mexico, I feel obliged to 

 holler. So I just holler. The way old 

 Mother Earth rigs up in the Spring 

 makes me full of life. I get down and 

 cool my legs in the deep grass. It brings 

 my appetite back a-whizzin'. My! if I 

 don't eat a thousand bugs a day. "Juicv" 

 don't describe 'em. Then I climb a tree- 

 top and holler. If I eat a thousand bugs 

 seems like I have to give two thousand 

 hollers. I holler straight through a 

 moonlight night. You see, I hate to let 

 old Whippoorwill think he's the only bird 

 alive. Mornin' after folks stop talkin' 

 'bout how bad they slept and say, 

 "What's that?" somebody says, "That's 

 the Chat." Then they always laugh. And 

 I laugh, too — a very Falstaffian laugh, as 

 if I'se shakin' great fat sides out of their 

 accordion plaits. Then I give a beautiful 

 whistle. And they say, "Now, what's 

 that?" The fellow I know says, "That's 

 the Chat." Then I give a surprised whis- 

 tle, just as if you stepped on a tack or 

 took a drink of red-hot cofifee. And they 

 say, "And what's that?" And the wise 

 man says, "That's the Chat again." 

 Well, says the other fellow, "I'll never 

 know that bird." But the bad sleeper 

 says, "Well, you would if he kept you 

 awake all last night as he did me. He 

 never knows when to stop." But even 

 that fellow will never know when I've 

 said my last w^ord ! 



These rag folks are awful stupids, any- 

 how\ I call 'em "blunderers." Do more 



harm than good wherever they're at. My 

 wife knits our house among thorns just 

 to plague 'em. They hate to get their 

 rags torn. Then they'd better keep 

 scarce of our door. If it ain't in black- 

 berry jungles it's in catbrier tangles. I 

 could yarn from sun-up to sundown 

 'bout how rag folks come blunderin' 

 round interferin'. Barrin' o cat's, they've 

 got the most meddlesome forefeet I ever 

 saw. But it ain't often they find us. Cause 

 why? We keep still. Our next-door 

 neighbor's Dame Indigo. Can't a body 

 go by she don't pop up scoldin' like a 

 house afire. Then they blunder round 

 till they find her nest-eggs, too ! Lots of 

 other feather-heads just like her ! There's 

 Topknot Cardnal makes such a fuss any- 

 body'd know he's got something to hide. 

 Sure enough, he's had such lots of kin 

 behind the bars it makes him scary. But 

 I'd show more pluck, anyhow. 



Once this summer a blunderer smart- 

 er'n common came along by us. We had 

 a nice place, too, in a dreadful black- 

 berry tangle. A small sassafras threw a 

 nice shadow over it when the sun got 

 hot. Well, I shut up cjuick, I tell you. 

 Was just tellin' Mrs. Chat a few things 

 while she kep' an eye on our four eggs 

 like. We kep' still as mice. But didn't 

 that blunderin' rags march right up to 

 our door and push and scratch till she 

 saw what we had? Had a little rag blun- 

 derer with her. An' she held her up to 

 look in, too. Every single feather we had 

 stood on end ! It was good riddance 

 when they went along. Couldn't believe 

 my specs when I saw they had left our 

 eggs alone. Seven suns after, big rags 

 came back. We're in a peck o' trouble. 

 Our four bairns just out the shell. We 

 both had to scratch round with all our 

 lO'^s to feed and keep 'em breathin'. Been 

 rainin' for a solid week. Dame Chat said 

 she just knew they'd get a chill and die. 

 But the blunderin' party didn't stay long. 



