THE SINGING BIRDS. 319 



Hardy, smart, restless, industrious, and frugal, the Black-cap Titmouse ranges through the forest 

 during the summer, and retiring to its more secluded parts, as if to ensure a greater degree of quiet, 

 it usually breeds there. Its numerous eggs produce a numerous progeny, and as soon as the first 

 brood has been reared the young range hither and thither in a body, searching for food, while their 

 parents, intent on rearing another family, remain concealed and almost silent, laying their eggs in the 

 hole deserted by some Woodpecker, or forming one for themselves. " As it has been my fortune," 

 says Audubon, " to witness a pair at this work, I will state what occurred, notwithstanding the 

 opinion of those who tell us that the bill of a Titmouse is ' not shaped for digging.' While seated 

 one morning under a crab apple-tree (very hard wood), I saw two Black-cap Titmice fluttering about 

 in great concern, as if anxious to see me depart. By their manners I was induced to believe their 

 nest was near, and, anxious to observe their proceedings, I removed to the distance of about twenty 

 paces. The birds now became silent, alighted on the apple-tree, gradually moved towards the base 

 of one of its large branches, and one of them disappeared, in what I then supposed to be the hole of 

 a small Woodpecker, but I saw it presently on the edge with a small chip in its bill, and again 

 cautiously approached the tree. When three or four yards off I distinctly heard the peckings or 

 tappings of the industrious worker within, and saw it come to the mouth of the hole and return many 

 times in succession in the course of half an hour, after which I got up and examined the mansion. 

 The hole was about three inches deep, and dug obliquely downward from the aperture, which was 

 just large enough to admit the bird. I had observed both sexes at this labour, and left the spot 

 perfectly satisfied as to their power of boring a nest for themselves." 



" The Black-cap Titmouse, or Chickadee, as it is generally named in our Eastern States, though 

 exceedingly shy in summer, or during the breeding season, becomes quite familiar in winter, although 

 it never ventures to enter the habitations of man ; but in the most boisterous weather requiring 

 neither food nor shelter there, it may be seen amidst the snow, in the rugged paths of the cheerless 

 woods, where it welcomes the traveller or woodcutter with a confidence and cheerfulness far 

 surpassing the well-known familiarity of the Robin Redbreast of Europe. Often, on such occasions, 

 should you offer it, no matter how small a portion of your fare, it alights without hesitation, and 

 devours it without manifesting any apprehension. The sound of an axe in the woods is sufficient to 

 bring forth several of these busy creatures, and, having discovered the woodman, they seem to find 

 pleasure in his company. If, as is usually the case, he is provided with a dinner, the Chickadee at 

 once evinces its anxiety to partake of it, and loses no opportunity of accomplishing its object, 

 although it sets about it with much circumspection, as if afraid of being detected and brought to 

 punishment. " A woodcutter in Maine assured me," continues Audubon, " that one day he happened 

 to be at work, and had scarcely hung up his basket of provisions, when it was observed by a flock of 

 these birds, which, having gathered into it at once, attacked a piece of cold beef; but, after each 

 peck, he saw their heads raised above the edge, as if to guard against the least appearance of danger. 

 After picking until they were tired or satisfied, they left the basket, and perched directly over his fire, 

 but out of the direction of the smoke. There they sat enjoying themselves, and ruffling their 

 feathers, to allow the warmth more easy access to their skin, until he began his dinner, when they 

 alighted near him, and, in the most plaintive tones, seemed to solicit a portion.'' 



" Often," continues our author, " have I watched the busy Chickadees as they proceeded from 

 tree to tree and from branch to branch, whether by the roadside or in the interior of the forest. The 

 light rustling sound of their concave wings would intimate their approach as well as their retreat, 

 as gaily one after another they passed onwards from one spot to another, chattering, peeping every- 

 where, and determined as it were not to suffer a chink to pass without inspection. Now hanging 

 back downwards at the extremity of a twig, its feet almost up to its bill, one would peck at a berry or a 



