UNDER THE APPLE-TREES 



edge of my table, and, quite oblivious of my pres- 

 ence, looks my papers and books over for the insect 

 tidbit which he does not find. How round and bril- 

 liant and eager are his eyes! If he is looking for a 

 bookworm, he fails to find it. 



A phcebe-bird perches here and there and makes 

 sudden swoops to the ground for the insects which 

 she cannot find on the wing. Phoebe hunts by 

 sight at long range. Her eye seems telescopic, 

 rather than microscopic like the warbler's. She ex- 

 plores the air and the ground and sees her game 

 from afar. At all hours of the day she perches on 

 the brown dead branches of the apple-trees, and 

 waits for her prey to appear, her straight, stiff tail 

 hingeing up and down at her rump. 



At present my favorite denizen of the orchard is 

 the chipmunk. He, too, likes the apple-seeds, but 

 he is not given to chipping up the apples as much as 

 is the red squirrel. He waits till the apples are ripe 

 and then nibbles the pulp. He also likes the orchard 

 because it veils his movements; when making his 

 trips to and fro, if danger threatens, the trunk of 

 every tree is a house of refuge. 



As I write these lines in my leafy tent, a chipmunk 

 comes in, foraging for his winter supplies. I have 

 brought him cherry-pits and peach-pits and cracked 

 wheat, from time to time, and now he calls on me 

 several times a day. His den is in the orchard but a 

 few yards from me, and I enjoy having him for so 

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