Breakfast Guests.



327



morning, now at about six o’clock, there is a little scratching noise

outside at the window, and on the blinds being raised “ Little Peter,”

as we have named him, appears, fluttering against the panes, clinging

to the framework and perching on the open window, uttering his

little call note. There on the ilex tree sits the mate, and with her

sometimes a blackcap, who appears intent on getting the nuts for

himself without the trouble of going to the window for them, for he

watches, and when Peter has caught up his nut (a most dexterous

feat considering the size of his beak) the blackcap tit chases him

across the lawn. Whether he succeeds in robbing him of the nut

or not is not known, as we cannot follow. Meantime the mate flies

shyly to the window, quietly takes her nut and enjoys it on the ilex

tree, holding it in her claws like a crossbill holds a fir cone.


A few weeks ago she ceased coming, no doubt being occupied

with her nesting duties. But though Peter now takes the nuts from

the sill of a wide open window, with a human being standing there,

he will not come on to the hand. Once only, on a very cold, frosty

morning he ventured to seize a nut from my hand, but never since.

He expostulates with a loud “ Tweet! Tweet! ” if I persist in hold¬

ing them, and comes on to the sill a little way off, but not on to the

hand nor even so far as the nuts held in the fingers. He rarely asks

me for nuts during the day, they seem to be a breakfast relish. The

blackcap tit has not been lately so Peter has the field to himself.


I have listened very carefully during the winter and early

spring to Peter’s notes, and so far as I can make out he has about

seven different calls and the notes now are less clear and resonant

than in winter and have a sort of tiny whistling sound as if the

letter S were in them. I have wondered if perhaps he gets tired

with helping to feed his young ones and it affects his voice.


There are several blue tits in the garden, and they shout to

each other from the trees. One day a party of them flew on to an

ancient rose-tree—a “ Maiden Blush ” rose, bearing hundreds of

exquisite shell-like blooms in June—and the dash of blue-grey colour

in the old tree was a lovely little picture.



