A Pocket Sanctuary 221 



trusted me to such an extent that they even fed the little ones where I could 

 watch them, after they were out of the nest. They were careful, however, to 

 keep each one in a separate place. 



A few days after the Flycatchers had left their summer home, a family of 

 Chickadees came visiting. I was sitting in the same shady spot, feeling rather 

 pensive over the empty nest, when I heard the sweetest, silveriest song over 

 my head: dee-dee-dee-dee. I looked up cautiously and there was the jolliest 

 family that ever went on a vacation after a hard summer's work. The five 

 youngsters were able to hunt bugs for themselves, and did so, very busily and 

 happily, but the father and the mother of the family could not break themselves 

 of their old habits very easily. Every little while they flew to one or the other 

 of the youngsters with an extra juicy morsel. It was no wonder the little fellows 

 were so fat. They stayed nearly an hour, and I never enjoyed afternoon 

 callers more in my life. 



The Doves usually did their visiting mornings, but they were welcome for 

 all that. Morning after morning, in June, their sweet, trembling notes floated 

 down from the upper branches of the twin pines as softly as the snowflakes in 

 January floated down from the clouds not so very much higher. And like the 

 snowflakes, the Dove notes, one upon another, filled the cup of the ravine until 

 it was running over with beauty. 



It was upon a June morning, also, that I first saw our Lazuli Bunting neigh- 

 bor. One learns to hope for unexpected things in a wild ravine garden on a 

 June morning; but when, my feet deep in wet clover, stepping carefully along 

 the narrow path, trying to keep from brushing the dew off the wild pea vines, 

 stooping low under the willows to save myself a shower-bath, I straightened up 

 and saw before me this gorgeous little bird, the thrill of discovery was as enjoy- 

 able as if I had found a specimen new to science. In a moment I saw his mate. 

 She was very soberly dressed, in comparison with the gentleman's fine trap- 

 pings. That was her only public appearance, but she found shelter and raised 

 her family somewhere in or near our pocket sanctuary I am sure, for nothing 

 else would have kept the dandy hanging around one spot so long. He warbled 

 a little, occasionally, but he was not a fine singer, though he had fine feathers 

 and was a fine bird. 



The sweetest bird-song I ever heard in the ravine, or, indeed, anywhere 

 else, was accompanied with the prettiest performance; and it came from the 

 pulsating throat and loving heart of a very plain-feathered bird — the Rusty 

 Song Sparrow. On a spring day I stole, as quietly as possible, down the path 

 that led from the kitchen door. Birds were often bathing or drinking in the 

 pools near the foot of the path, where the brook tumbled over the bare roots of 

 an old stump. Once, at my approach, a bevy of Quail flew up with a whir of 

 beating wings. This morning, half-way down the path, I stopped suddenly, 

 hearing an unfamiliar song. A moment more and the musician came into view, 

 out of the overhanging bushes, into an open space along the brook. He was a 



