of t 



bird shows a marked preference, makes deliberate 

 choice, and in his choice is protection, and poetry, 

 too. Doubtless he follows the guidance of a sure and 

 watchful instinct (whatever instinct be), but who shall 

 deny to him a share of the higher, finer things of the 

 imagination ? a share of real aesthetic taste? 



His life inside the birch is of a piece with the 

 artistic exterior. It is all gentle and sweet and idyllic. 

 There is no happier spot in the summer woods than 

 that about the birch of the chickadees ; and none 

 whose happiness you will be so little liable to disturb. 



Before the woods were in leaf one spring I found 

 a pair of chickadees building in a birch along the edge 

 of the swamp. They had just begun, having dug out 

 only an inch of cavity. It was very interesting to dis- 

 cover them doing the work themselves, for usually 

 they refit some abandoned chamber or adapt a ready- 

 made hole. 



The birch was a long, limbless cylinder of bark, 

 broken off about fourteen feet up, and utterly rotten, 

 the mere skin of a tree stuffed with dust. I could 

 push my finger into it at any point. It was so weak 

 that every time the birds lighted upon the top the 

 whole stub wobbled and reeled. Surely they were 



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