no American Birds 



the parents care for, them a week or so after they leave 

 the nest till they are able to hunt a living for themselves ; 

 then the family scatters and loses identity in the great 

 world of feathers. Not so with the bush-tits: they hunt, 

 feed, and sleep together, winter as well as summer. Such 

 little talkers 1 They titter as much as they hunt and eat, 

 and that is all day long. When you meet them in the 

 woodland it sounds like a fairy's wedding march. 



I found the little family in the hemlock tree even more 

 interesting after they all learned to fly. Several times I 

 saw them about the patch of woods. One day I stood 

 watching the flock of midgets in an alder copse. Each 

 youngster had learned to keep up a constant " Tsre-e ! 

 Tsre-el Tsit! Tsre-e! " as if always saying something, 

 but I do not think this gossip was as much for the sake 

 of the conversation as merely to keep the whole flock 

 constantly together. While I was watching, three or four 

 of the little fellows were within a few feet of me. One 

 of the parents in the next tree began a shrill, quavering 

 whistle, and instantly it was taken up by every one of the 

 band. The two tiny birds near me, as well as every one 

 of the others, froze to their perches. Had I not known, 

 I couldn't have told just where the whistle was coming 

 from, it sounded so scattering, like the elusive, grating 

 call of the cicada. Then I saw a hawk sweeping slowly 

 overhead, and the confusing chorus lasted as long as the 

 hawk was In sight; nor did one of the little bush-tits seem 

 to move a feather, but just sit and trill in perfect unison. 

 It served as a unique method of protection; the whole 

 flock had learned to act as a unit. It would have been 

 hard for an enemy to tell where a single bird was, the 



