A Winter Chronicle, 1918-19 



By KATHARINE UPHAM HUNTER, AA/est Claremont, N. H. 



THE Catbird, taking a sun-bath on a crosspiece of the pergola, regarded 

 that other biped on the brick floor below with a wary black eye; occa- 

 sionally he reached for a woodbine berry and gorged it, then he puffed 

 his feathers and settled himself again. It was mid-October; the summer birds 

 had gone and the chill day was a forecast of winter. 



The Catbird and I huddled ourselves in the only patch of sunshine and 

 half-dozed in its warmth. Around the corner the wind blustered about its 

 coming league with Jack Frost and snow. I shivered with my dead flowers, 

 for the North Wind filled me with dismay. At that moment I was in spirit 

 a lotos-eater, eager to follow the belated Catbird on his journey to Cuba or 

 lazy Mexico, to bright skies and tropical climate. But I did not go. I wished 

 the bird a pleasant journey and went indoors to heap wood in the fireplace. 

 Perhaps there is a bit of the endurance of our ancestors (inherited with our 

 consciences) that bids us New Englanders weather the blasts of winter ! 



Next day the Catbird was gone and I, out in the orchard filling boxes and 

 swinging-trays with hemp, rape and sunflower seeds, and tacking suet to the 

 twisted apple trees, felt again the lure of winter. The keen air invited me to 

 explore. In a clearing on a woodland road I saw a Downy Woodpecker on a 

 goldenrod stalk hammering and hammering at the frail plant which swayed 

 perilously with each blow. I found what I had expected, round galls drilled 

 full of tiny holes. So Downy is an epicure and has his own caviar! 



Over my head and over the dusky tops of the pine trees the last Bluebirds 

 were flying away to the South; the scattered band moved slowly, regretfuUy, 

 as though loath to leave the northern home where they had fulfilled once 

 again their destiny, and earned their place in the sun. Their soft voices 

 floated down to me, mournfully, caressingly. Then I fell awondering what 

 birds would seek my hospitality during the cold months before 'winsome 

 Bluebird' would again gladden our hearts. If one lives in the country, the real 

 country, where one may walk miles on one's acres without coming upon any 

 being unfurred and unfeathered, then one invests these wfld creatures with 

 personality. They are our friends. And as friends of long standing are first 

 in our affections, I shall begin this winter bird-hst of 19 18-19 with the Nut- 

 hatches. 



Our friendship dates from the fall day when a Nuthatch was trapped in 

 the 'shed-chamber' — of course old houses have shed-chambers, they are as 

 much a part of their orthodoxy as the brick oven, the square-paned windows, 

 and the smoke-bushes in the front yard; and I fear me from the feathered 

 things that have fluttered into ours, they can be veritable death-traps. But the 

 Nuthatch was discovered in time and he did some gallant work with his rapier- 

 bill, I remember, before the rescuing fingers unclosed to give him liberty. It 



(340) 



