72 I WINTER 



houses. Now and again they escape; yet when they 

 do it is always a matter for wonder. 



I was following an old disused wood-road once when 



o 



I frightened a robin from her nest. Her mate joined 

 her, and together they raised a great hubbub. Im- 

 mediately a chewink, a pair of vireos, and two black 

 and white warblers joined the robins in their din. 

 Then a chickadee appeared. He had a worm in his 

 beak. His anxiety seemed so real that I began to 

 watch him, when, looking down among the stones 

 for a place to step, what should I see but his mate 

 emerging from the end of a tiny birch stump at my 

 very feet ! She had heard the racket and had come 

 out to see what it was all about. At sight of her, 

 Mr. Chickadee hastened with his worm, brushing my 

 face, almost, as he darted to her side. She took the 

 worm sweetly, for she knew he had intended it for 

 her. But how do I know it was intended for her, 

 and not for the young? There were no young in 

 the nest; only eggs. Even after the young came 

 (there were eight of them!), when life, from day- 

 light to dark, was one ceaseless, hurried hunt for 

 worms, I saw him over and over again fly to Mrs. 

 Chickadee's side caressingly and tempt her to eat. 



The house of this pair did not fall. How could it 

 when it stood precisely two and a half feet from the 

 ground ? But that it was n't looted is due to the amaz- 

 ing boldness of its situation. It stood alone, close to 

 the road, so close that the hub of a low wheel in 



