The Tragic Story of a Titmouse 



By GEORGE ROBERTS, JR., Lake Forest, Ills. 



ON April 2 2, 1 918, I was asked by one who had but a sHght knowledge 

 of birds, to identify a light blue-colored bird, smaller than a Robin, 

 possessed of a crest, and with a cheery whistle-like note. I was unable 

 to answer. Two days later, right after breakfast, I was almost shot out of 

 doors by the sound of a bird-note that was new to me; to be more exact, it 

 was less like a note than like a whistle. It was repeated continually, and in 

 less than a minute I saw the bird himself (I learned the sex later), a Tufted- 

 Titmouse, who was busily feeding amid the bushes. He was perfectly fearless, 

 and I was able to watch him for some time, and to approach within eight feet 

 of him. I knew him as soon as I saw him, though 1 had never yet seen one of 

 this species, and I also connected him with my friend's question of two days 

 before. In about ten minutes, pressure of work and the bird's journeying a 

 little too far from the confines of my own yard, sent me indoors again; but I 

 did not commence work until I had consulted the books, corroborating my 

 identification and learning a little about this new visitor. The most interest- 

 ing fact learned was of his rarity in this part of the world, not quite so rare 

 as to be unheard of, but such as to be worthy of note and mention. Seldom 

 does the Titmouse reach so far north in the state of Illinois (30 miles north 

 of Chicago and fifteen miles from the state of Wisconsin). 



In the next few weeks this new friend was constantly within either sight 

 or hearing, and nearly every neighbor had been attracted by his whistle, which 

 so distinctly resembled a man calling loudly for his dog. I could not find, 

 and have not yet found, any resemblance of this whistle to the famiHarly- 

 written peto, peto; with us it was oftenest monosyllabic. Beside this, the note 

 most often heard, he possessed another series of notes which most closely 

 resembled the chick-a-dcc-dee-dee of his black-capped cousin, though it was 

 not quite so cheery, and was of a httle harsher quahty; perhaps I should say 

 that it seemed to come more from the throat and less from the heart — and all 

 friends of his cousin will agree with me that he at least does speak from the 

 heart. After being once heard and the speaker identified, there was never 

 any difficulty in distinguishing the two. 



Thus matters went on during the summer. From the almost constant sight 

 or sound of him it would seem that he never wandered far from a radius of a 

 few hundred feet from my study; so much so, that, with the bird-lover's sense 

 of proprietorship, I soon found myself calling him 'my Titmouse.' Still more 

 did I use that pronoun after Armistice Day, November 11, on which date he 

 appeared on the bird-shelf outside of my window, and made me forget the 

 international and world event just transpiring; that seemed a small thing by 

 comparison. At first he but hastily seized a seed and flew off to a neighboring 

 tree to eat it, returning promptly for more; but b^ore the day was over the 



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