BOY-CHICKADEE. 



I doubt if any one was ever haunted by 

 a more commonplace object than a fence- 

 post ; yet, terminating a fence that bor- 

 ders a little farm, there is a gray old post 

 which has haunted my imagination for 

 several years. The fence has long ceased 

 to fence anything in or out ; the upper- 

 most rail is the only one left and that is 

 fastened to my post about five inches from 

 the top. Just under the lee of that rail is 

 a round hole which is rather jagged about 

 the lower edge as if gnawed by sharp lit- 

 tle teeth. Every time I travel that road 

 I am impelled to stop and put a finger 

 into that hole. I always expect to dis- 

 cover a secret, yet never do. Still, the 

 post haunts me for once Boy-Chickadee 

 kept house there. 



Boy-Chickadee is one of our smallest 

 birds. He wears a dumpy little gray coat 

 surmounted by a pair of bright black 

 eyes under a velvety black cap. Dear to 

 the heart of every bird-lover, he is espe- 

 cially so in winter. It is then that his 

 crystal pendulum of song swings lightly 

 to and fro where other bird-song is rare. 

 It is rather plaintive — two minor notes 

 swing to the left, then two more to the 

 right — and seems to belong only to frosty 

 mornings. Boy-Chickadee stays to wish 

 you "A Merry Christmas'' and "A Happy 

 New Year," and comes daily to dine on 

 sunflower seeds stowed in a large gourd 

 for him. I should be ashamed to say how 

 many seeds he consumes at a sitting, or 

 flitting better describes it. He flits in 

 for a seed, then out to the apple-tree to 

 hammer it, uttering gurgles of content 

 all the while. He spends so much time 

 eating them that I eye my store anxious- 

 ly wondering if it will hold out under 

 such onslaughts. Sometimes he brings 

 a companion and they take turns going 

 into the gourd. His British enemies tag 

 him enviously and hang about the gourd- 

 door; but it is cut too small for them 

 and they can only gaze in. It is Boy- 

 Chickadee's cache. 



In summer time Chickadee deserts us 

 and we must seek him in the fields, and 

 that is how we came to find the fence- 



post. We sat waiting for birds to bathe, 

 but waited in vain. They bathed up- 

 stream and they bathed down-stream. 

 We saw them drying their feathers, but 

 they would not bathe by us. A dripping 

 Chickadee flew overhead and sat preen- 

 ing his feathers in a sweetgum tree. How 

 nearly we had come to seeing that bath ! 

 (a thing we had never achieved). In de- 

 spair we crossed the road and hid behind 

 the sassafras hedge. Presently some- 

 thing strange passed us and there was 

 Dame Chickadee with a very queer bur- 

 den. Imagine yourself with a mouthful 

 of excelsior larger than your head, and 

 you will have some idea of her comical 

 appearance. She peered at us from be- 

 hind her treasure first with one eye and 

 then with the other. We were all atten- 

 tion. A dozen times she darted towards 

 the old fence, but we were too alarming 

 and she could not make up her mind to 

 brave us. Each time she retreated to the 

 sweetgum, holding tight to her bundle — 

 it might have been a clematis blossom, I 

 could not say. It was the first time I 

 had ever seen a Chickadee look self-con- 

 scious. At the same time we saw that 

 Boy-Chickadee had dipped in once more 

 and was dripping wet. It was madden- 

 ing. At last she made a wide curve to- 

 wards us and disappeared. I sprang to 

 the fence-post and discovered the round 

 hole, and with an ecstatic catch of the 

 breath I put one finger in. A bunch of 

 indignant feathers hurled itself against 

 my hand and out came the finger and out 

 came she and whisked away with such 

 lightning rapidity that we barely saw her. 

 The hole was too deep and too well shad- 

 owed to tell us anything more than that 

 it had a secret in its keeping and al- 

 though we should have liked to camp by 

 the post it was not to be. 



At our next visit we found Dame Chick- 

 adee setting and Boy Chickadee feeding 

 her ; again, and the post had become a 

 nursery. It seemed too ludicrous that 

 such babes-in-the-woods should ever at- 

 tain to the dignity of fatherhood and 

 motherhood ; but this time neither parent 



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