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BABES IN THE WOODS 



ONE day in early May, Ted and I made an expe- 

 dition to the Shattega, a still, dark, deep stream 

 that loiters silently through the woods not far from 

 my cabin. As we paddled along, we were on the alert 

 for any bit of wild life of bird or beast that might 

 turn up. Ted was especially on the lookout for 

 birds'-nests, and many times I pushed the boat up 

 close to the bank that he might explore with his slen- 

 der arm the cavities the woodpeckers had made in 

 the dead tree trunks that bordered or overhung the 

 stream. Only once did he bring out a handful of ma- 

 terial that suggested a bird's-nest, and on examining 

 it, sure enough, there was a bird's egg, the egg of the 

 chickadee. The boy had clutched the nest, egg and 

 all, and had made such a wreck of the former that 

 we concluded it was useless to try to restore it and 

 return it to the cavity. So Ted added the egg to his 

 collection, and, I suspect, regretted the result of his 

 eager dive into the hollow stub less than I did. 



There were so many of these abandoned wood- 

 pecker chambers in the small dead trees as we went 

 along that I determined to secure the section of a tree 

 215 



