In Southern Hoosier Hills 43 



asked him how he accounted for their disappearance, and he 

 answered that the birds left because the beechnut crop was a 

 failure. "The red-heads," he said, "like beechnuts better 

 than any other food. They live on them all winter. Last 

 fall, for some reason, there wasn't a beechnut in the country, 

 and the birds all cleared out." 



The lad's explanation was undoubtedly the true one. He 

 said that he had studied something about the birds in school, 

 and that there wasn't as much shooting going on now as 

 there used to be. When he discovered that we were bird 

 enthusiasts and were out on an opera-glass hunt, he entered 

 into the spirit of the occasion and gave us much information. 

 He was in a receptive mood as well, and I hope that he 

 gained knowledge enough to pay him for what he imparted. 



A high-pitched voice, calling "Peter, Peter, Peter," came 

 from some trees on the hillside. The boy stopped his horses. 



"I've seen and heard that bird ever since I was born," he 

 said; "I call him Peter, because that's what he calls himself, 

 but what the bird is I don't know; tell me." 



By this time I had the bird in the field of my glass, and I 

 told the boy driver its name, though this was my first glimpse 

 in life of "Peter." The discovery of a bird new to the 

 observer makes a red-letter field-day. "Peter" was the 

 tufted titmouse, first cousin to the chickadee. "Tufty" is 

 common enough in the southern Indiana latitude, and is occa- 

 sionally seen as far north as Chicago, though it had never 

 been my fortune to meet him. Soon more of the titmice 

 came into sight. There was a troop numbering nearly a 

 score. They are active little creatures, and of a jolly tem- 

 perament. For a week I had ample opportunity to study 

 "Tufty" and his ways; and with all due regard for our little 



