OUR COUNTRY LIFE 



I cannot tell the whitethroat from the English spar 

 row? And I scrutinized those saucy, but in the 

 country, clean, birds carefully. No, there was no 

 mistaking those bandits of the bird world; no white- 

 throat was among them. I asked a caller well versed 

 in this country's habits if the whitethroat ever stayed 

 as late as this. "I think that you must have heard 

 what we call the spring song of the chickadee," she 

 answered at once. Although I smiled politely 

 and thanked her I was not convinced. Until I actually 

 saw a chickadee emitting those two notes I could not 

 believe it. For days I waited and watched, hearing 

 often but never seeing, until finally one morning just as 

 I was putting out the dish of food for the birds' table, 

 a chickadee on the nearest branch to me lifted up his 

 small voice and cried: "O h, de r!" An exquisite, 

 prolonged, pathetic sigh. Now I was convinced, now 

 I recognized that Mr. Chickadee had his own small 

 trials, and that although he endeavored to be cheery 

 before the world there were moments when his hid 

 den griefs must find expression. 



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