118 BEYOND THE PASTURE BARS 



second rail from the bottom, in the section between 

 the stump and the sassafras-tree, holds a pint of 

 golden corn. 



All wild animals are mere children. They all 

 love to put things into holes. They all must be 

 busy if with nothing else than their tails. But 

 they rarely work. 



I knew a chickaree, who lived in a little glen by 

 the side of Thorn Mountain Cabin in the White 

 Mountains, and who began in August, two months 

 before the end of the harvest, to pick and store 

 green birch catkins. You cannot store them when 

 they are dead ripe, perhaps, for they may fall to 

 pieces. As I watched him, however, I concluded 

 he was doing the work just for the fun of it. He 

 must do something; and this tree, full of little 

 cones, looked to him just as a box of buttons looks 

 to a baby. 



He owned this great single birch at the head 

 of the glen. He lived in it alone, and made war 

 against all birds or beasts that came near. 



I have seen him chase a junco up and down and 

 across the top until the bird flew off. A flock of 

 them settling among the branches drove him fran- 

 tic. I, too, when I came near called down his 

 wrath. But after a week of daily visits I was al- 



