IN THE CANADIAN WOODS. 135 



curiosity and something of displeasure, upon the unwel- 

 come intruder. He expresses his anger by uttering 

 sharp scolding notes, setting up his fine furry tail as a 

 banner of defiance. 



Listen to that soft whispering sound. It cannot be 

 called a song, it is so soft and monotonous. It is the 

 note of a tiny browns bird that flits among the pine 

 cones, one of the little tree-creepers, a Sitta or a 

 Certhia, gentle birds small as the tiniest of our wrens. 



They live among the cone-bearing evergreens, glean- 

 ing their daily meal from between the chinks of the 

 rugged bark where they find the larvae upon which 

 they feed. 



As they flit to and fro they utter this little call-note 

 ±o their companions, so soft that it would pass unnoticed 

 but for the silence that reigns around us. 



We call this little denizen of the pine forest the 

 " Whisperer," and I have some doubt if I am right in sup- 

 posing it to be a Certhia or a Sitta. I cannot recognize 

 it in Mr. Mcllwraith's "Birds of Ontario." I know it 

 only as a tiny brown tree-creeper, that runs up and down 

 the trees uttering its soft whispering note. It is smaller 

 and less pretty than the tiny black and white spotted 

 woodpecker that comes to the trees in my garden or taps 

 with its strong bill on the shingled roof of the house — 

 a quick, noisy rapping, as much as to say, " Here I am ! 

 — here I am ! " Or perhaps I see a pair of these pretty 

 fellows busy on the moss-crusted garden fence. So busy 



