60 IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



and make periodic visits. But it requires a snow- 

 fall to drive them up to the dwelling in considerable 

 numbers. A day after the ground is permanently- 

 covered, however, the pine hedge is alive with them, 

 and we see their little fat, fluffed bodies twinkling 

 in the bare branches of the apple-tree, and as we 

 are seated at breakfast suddenly there is a flutter of 

 wings outside the window, and a pair of bright, bead- 

 like, marvelously intelligent eyes look in at us. If, 

 on this first morning, we rise from the table and 

 move toward the window, the bird will probably 

 take flight, dropping the seed he had picked up. 

 But in a very few days he gets over his timidity. 

 We can come close to the window and sit with our 

 faces not a foot from the ledge outside, while the 

 bird will hop about selecting a seed or pecking with 

 his tiny, sharp bill at the piece of frozen suet with 

 loud, ringing blows. 



A bird is an incredibly quick thing in all his move- 

 ments. Watch a robin crossing the lawn, and you 

 will be hard put to say whether he runs or hops, so 

 fast do his legs move. Watch a chickadee pecking 

 at a piece of frozen suet, and again you will be 

 amazed at the rapidity of his blows, and also at the 

 muscular power in that tiny neck, which, under its 

 deceptive ruff of downy feathers, can't be much 

 thicker than your little finger. His whole body is 

 scarce larger than your thumb. Bang, bang, bang, 

 goes his beak — and then he suddenly stops, lifts his 

 head, cocks a shiny, twinkling eye at you, swallows, 

 looks around at the landscape, hops off the suet, 

 hops on again, and — bang, bang, bang, go the blows 

 of his beak once more. Birds are curiously jerky 



