Killooleet, Little Sweet -Voice. 37 



ing when he could get cold fried trout and corn 

 bread. 



I landed silently and stole up to the tent to see if 

 he were exploring under the fly, as he sometimes did 

 ^yhen I was away. A curious sound, a hollow tunk, 

 tunk, tunk, tunk-a-tunk, grew louder as I approached. 

 I stole to the big cedar, where I could see the fire- 

 place and the little opening before my tent, and 

 noticed first that I had left the cracker box open (it 

 was almost empty) when I hurried away after the 

 otter. The curious sound was inside, growing more 

 eager every moment — tunk, tunk, tunk-a-trrrrrrr- 

 runk, tunk, tunk ! 



I crept on my hands and knees to the box, to see 

 what queer thing had found his way to the crackers, 

 and peeped cautiously over the edge. There were 

 Killooleet, and Mrs. Killooleet, and the five little 

 Killooleets, just seven hopping brown backs and 

 bobbing heads, helping themselves to the crackers. 

 And the sound of their bills on the empty box made 

 the jolliest tattoo that ever came out of a camp- 

 ing kit. 



I crept away more cautiously than I had come, and, 

 standing carelessly in my tent door, whistled the call 

 I always used in feeding the birds. Like a flash 

 Killooleet appeared on the edge of the cracker box, 



