WMle tMs robust and uncultured family of 

 flickers were growing up, only three doors away 

 (counting by poles) a modest and soft-voiced 

 pair of bluebirds, with a decently numbered 

 family of four, were living in a hole so near the 

 ground that I could look in upon the meek but 

 brave little mother. 



There is still another dead-tree crag that the 

 average bird-lover and summer naturalist rarely 

 gathers— I mean the white-footed mice. They 

 are the j oiliest little beasts in all the tree hollows. 

 It is when the woods are bare and deep with 

 snow, when the cold, dead winter makes outside 

 living impossible, that one really appreciates 

 the coziness and protection of the life in these 

 deep rooms, sunk like wells into the hearts of 

 the trees. With what unconcern the mice await 

 nightfall and the coming of the storms ! They 

 can know nothing of the anxiety and dread of 

 the crows ; they can share little of the crows' 

 suffering in the bitter nights of winter. A 

 warm, safe bed is a large item in out-of-doors 

 living when it is cold ; and I have seen whei'e 

 these mice tuck themselves away from the dark 

 and storm in beds so snug and warm that I 

 18 [ 273 ] 



