t6 American Birds 



around, but saw nothing save the wreck of an old alder; 

 dead, rotten, useless, broken off five feet from the ground; 

 not even good for fire-wood; worm-eaten at the bottom, 

 almost ready to return as earth to the ground from which 

 it had sprung. Rotten, but not entirely useless — it gave 

 me an idea. 



The little Black-cappedTitmouse or Chickadee (Parus 

 atricapillus occidentalis) is the most constant feathered 

 friend I have, for there is hardly a day in the year 

 that I cannot find him, whether it be hot or cold. On 

 some of my tramps in the rain and snow the chickadee 

 has been the only bit of bird life that has cheered my 

 way. I have never found the chickadee moody. I've 

 seen him when it was so cold I couldn't understand just 

 how he kept his tiny body warm; when it looked like 

 all hunting for him and no game. If he was hungry, 

 he didn't show it. The wren goes south and lives in 

 sunshine and plenty all winter. He goes wild with de- 

 light when he returns home in the spring. The chickadee 

 winters in the north. He endures the cold and hunger 

 of the dreary months. In the spring his cheer seems just 

 the same. He doesn't bubble over. He takes his abun- 

 dance in quiet and contentment. 



Chickadee never seems to have the blues, but for all 

 his cheer md happiness, the loneliest, saddest bird I ever 

 saw was a chickadee who had lost his mate. It was cold 

 and darkening. I heard the sad, drawn-out " phee-bee " 

 note up the ravine. As he came nearer, it sounded like a 

 funeral song. The bewildered little fellow was all aflut- 

 ter and uneasy, flitting from tree to tree and calling, call- 

 ing. I can hear the echo yet, calling for his love. 



