moment in a young hickory above the fence 



to whistle his curiosity, just as if he had not 



seen it fifty times before. A curiosity to him (^'deedee-lokhsis 



never grows old. He does not scream now ; 



it is his nesting time. — And so on through 



the afternoon. The old fence is becoming a 



part of the woods ; and every wild thing that 



passes by stops to get acquainted. 



I was weaving an idle history when a 

 chickadee twittered in the pine behind me. 

 As I turned, he flew over me and lit on the 

 topmost mossy rail. He had something in 

 his beak ; so I watched to find his nest ; 

 for I wanted very much to see him at work. 

 Chickadee had never seemed afraid of me, 

 and I thought he would trust me now. But 

 he did not. He would not go near his nest. 

 Instead he began hopping about the old rail, 

 and pretended to be very busy hunting for 

 insects. 



Presently his mate appeared, and with a 

 sharp note he called her down beside him. 

 Then both birds hopped and twittered about 

 the rail, with apparently never a care in the 

 world. The male especially seemed just in 



