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 pheebe-bird perches here and there and makes 
sudden swoops to the ground for the insects which 
she cannot find on the wing. Phcebe 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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