MY NUTHATCH US 



241 



WHITE-BREASTED NUTHATCH 



ing to the sill for crumbs and flutter- 

 ing about our heads as we shoveled the 

 snow from the piazza. 



Mr. Cram says that the small wood 

 folk seem to like to be near larger ani- 

 mals whom they have never had any 

 reason to fear. We know that the cold 

 has a taming effect on the birds, and 

 certainly our feathered guests not only 

 did not object to our presence, but 

 often courted it. 



The chickadees were in the habit of 

 saying grace with every mouthful, if 

 the food was especially appetizing, but 

 the nuthatches ate for the most part 

 in silence, though now and then we 

 heard their sharp "yank," "yank." No 

 meal seemed to be complete without its 

 desert of grub, egg or tiny insect, 

 tucked away beneath the bark. Hours 

 were spent by these patient searchers 

 in circling the tree, tapping with their 

 beaks and prying into every crevice 

 beneath bark and lichen. So agile were 

 they that if one happened to drop a bit 

 of food he would fly down and catch 

 it before it reached the ground. 



One still grey day I had a curious 

 experience with a nuthatch, which I 

 have never been able to explain to my- 

 self. He was on the box just beneath 

 the window where crumbs were scat- 

 tered. When I leaned out he crouched 

 close to the house, and as long as I 

 kept my eyes fixed on him he remained 

 absolutely motionless. I could have 

 laid my hand on him without moving. 

 Did I hypnotize him, or was he 

 numbed with the cold? Never before 

 had I seen a white-breast motionless 

 for one moment. As soon as I turned 

 from him he was up and off as lively 

 as any of his brethren. 



There was a great difference in the 

 way the various birds pecked 

 frozen suet, and I soon knew 

 which was dining by the sound of 

 his knocking bill. The white-breasts 

 gave the loudest and most hurried taps, 

 but often it was hard to tell whether a 

 tit-mouse or the little red-breasted hatch 

 was at table. This small nuthatch was 

 a most charming guest, so gentle and 

 confiding, always looking as though he 

 had just completed a most elaborate 

 toilette, every feather so smooth and 

 unruffled even in the wildest weather. 



I have often wondered what induces 

 any bird to remain through winter in 

 so inhospitable a / clime as ours. Why 

 do they not migrate with their fellows 

 to a place where in all probability it 

 would be much easier to get a living? 

 Is it possible they are so brave-hearted 

 that they prefer to buffet cold and 

 storm and spend all their energies try- 

 ing to procure enough food to maintain 

 life? How fortunate that nature has 

 taught them to use their claws as hands 

 to hold hard seeds, nuts and grains, 

 while they hammer them to bits with 

 their powerful beaks. Last summer I 

 watched a young rose-breasted gros- 

 beak eating a large caterpillar, and it 

 seemed a pity that she did not realize 

 how much help her claws might have 

 been to her. The worm was foo large 

 for one beakful and she spent many 

 minutes beating it against the branch 

 and nipping it, until she finally sue- 



