144 Ways of Wood Folk. 



frank, yet never invite you to his camp, or should 

 even lead you away from it. But the soft little nest 

 in the old knot-hole is the one secret of Chickadee's 

 life ; and the little deceptions by which he tries to 

 keep it are at times so childlike, so transparent, that 

 they are even more interesting than his frankness. 



One afternoon in May I was hunting, without a 

 gun, about an old deserted farm among the hills — 

 one of those sunny places that the birds love, because 

 some sense of the human beings who once lived there 

 still clings about the half wild fields and gives pro- 

 tection. The day was bright and warm. The birds 

 were everywhere, flashing out of the pine thickets 

 into the birches in all the joyfulness of nest-building, 

 and filling the air with life and melody. It is poor 

 hunting to move about at such a time. Either the 

 hunter or his game must be still. Here the birds 

 were moving constantly; one might see more of them 

 and their ways by just keeping quiet and invisible. 



I sat down on the outer edge of a pine thicket, and 

 became as much as possible a part of the old stump 

 which was my seat. Just in front an old four-rail 

 fence wandered across the deserted pasture, struggling 

 against the blackberry vines, which grew profusely 

 about it and seemed to be tuQ-o-ino; at the lower rail 

 to pull the old fence down to ruin. On either side it 

 disappeared into thickets of birch and oak and pitch 



