The Weaver of the West 107 



tribe had inflicted upon their kin? They had known me 

 scarcely a week. I really believe the fluffy, gray bodies 

 only remembered the kindnesses of our race, not the evils. 

 Then, maybe, they had not forgotten the feathers I hung 

 about on the limbs. But their happiness was my happi- 

 ness. I rejoiced when the naked mites broke from the 

 fragile shells. I had a private door all my own; a slit 

 cut in the back wall where I could occasionally peek into 

 the innermost depths, and then pin it carefully together 

 again. 



Anybody would fall in love with a bush-tit, even if 

 he were not the chickadee's cousin. If it were not for his 

 tail, the fluffy midget would be no larger than your thumb. 

 He does not possess the aerial grace of a swallow, or even 

 the nimbleness of a warbler. He bustles along in such a 

 jerky way he often looks as if he would topple heels over 

 head and go whirling to the ground like a tailless kite. 

 But he is a skilled hunter. He skirmishes every tree and 

 bush. He is not so successful a wing-shot as the fly- 

 catcher, but he has an eye that few birds can equal in stalk- 

 ing. He is no mean assistant of the gardener. He is not 

 the kind that hoes a whole garden in a day, cutting off half 

 the new tender shoots, but he's at work early and late, 

 and he's constantly at it. 



I kept run of bush-tit affairs for several days after the 

 young had hatched. The father fed the nestlings as often 

 as the mother. He generally paused a moment on the fern 

 tops just below the nest, and by focusing our camera at 

 this point we got his picture. Sometimes he would stop 

 at the doorway with a look of inquiry that said, " What 

 do you think of that for a dinner?" Occasionally I've 



