love to put things into holes. They all must be 

 busy— if with nothing else than their tails. But 

 they rarely worlc. 



I knew a chickaree who lived in a little glen 

 by the side of Thorn Mountain Cabin, whose 

 activity took on the character of real work. But 

 why in August, two months before the end of 

 the harvest, he should pick green catkins from 

 the birch, I don't know. You cannot store them 

 when they are dead ripe, perhaps, for they may 

 fall to pieces. As I watched him, however, I 

 concluded he was doing the work, not seriously, 

 but for fun. He must do something ; and this 

 tree, full of little cones, appealed to him as a box 

 of buttons to a baby. 



He owned this great single birch at the head 

 of the glen. He lived in it alone, and warred 

 against all trespassers, birds or beasts. 



I have seen him chase a junco up and down 

 - and across the top until the bird flew off. A 

 flock of them settling among the branches drove 

 him frantic. I, too, called down his wrath ; but 

 after a week of daily visits he allowed me to 

 stretch out upon the moss beneath the low wide 

 limbs and watch him work. 

 [244] 



