MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



pass that, on the eve of the feast, Theodore still 

 struts triumphantly about the poultry yard, while 

 the virtuous substitute, denuded of his feathers, 

 his wings closely clasped to his sides and his 

 drumsticks folded over his highly seasoned inte- 

 rior, awaits in the cellar of the grove-house the 

 hour when he is to take his place in the roasting 

 pan en route for the heated oven. 



The friendly catbird still remains, you see. He 

 has just alighted on a bunch of celery that the 

 gardener is carrying to the kitchen. The celery 

 is no doubt one of the accompaniments of the 

 Theodore feast. 



Day after day I meet a few song-sparrows over 

 in the sheltering brush-heap near the entrance to 

 the flower-garden. Several of the little fellows 

 are coming our way now, probably in anticipation 

 of the daily seed and grain supply that we scatter 

 in the neighborhood. All our pensioners seem 

 most grateful for attentions of this kind. 



That dear little brown sprite with the finely 

 barred coat and the jauntily retroussee tail is a 

 winter wren. How easy it would be to over- 

 look him as he bobs in and out among the bushes. 

 Wonderfully like a bit of his autumn settings 

 is he. 



[68] 



