92 
THE CONDOR 
| Von. VII 
I stood almost within reach of the nest. The little lover looked me over from 
all sides. Then, as a final test, he popped right into the round door. He knew I 
would make a grab at him nest and all. He was out in a twinkle. He looked 
amazed, for I didn’t move. That was his test of friendship, and from that time 
he gave me his confidence. 
Anybody would fall in love with a bush-tit. The fluffy midget does not pos- 
sess the aerial grace of a swallow, or even the nimbleness of a warbler. He bustles 
along in such a jerky way, he often looks as if he would topple heels over head 
and go whirling to the ground like a 
tailless kite. But he is a skilled 
hunter. He skirmishes every tree 
and bush. He is not so successful a 
wing-shot as a flycatcher but he has 
an eye that few can beat in stalking. 
He is no mean assistant of the gard- 
ener. He is not the kind that hoes 
a whole garden in a day, cutting off 
half the new tender shoots, but he is 
at work early and late and he is con- 
stantly at it. 
We kept run of bush tit affairs for 
several days after the young had 
hatched. The father fed the nestlings 
as often as the mother. He generally 
paused on the fern tops just below 
the nest. The real drama of life came 
when the youngsters were fluttering, 
full-grown, vigorous, impatient to get 
one glimpse at the outside world from 
where the mother and father came 
so often with morsels. We had 
watched and waited two weeks for 
this day. The minute one nestling 
took the idea into his head to get out 
into the sunshine, it spread like con- 
tagion among the whole household. 
The round door poured out young 
birds with the rapidity of a Gatling 
gun shooting in every direction at 
once, and bullets could hardly be any 
more difficult than the youngsters 
were to find. 
bush-tit nest in willow parent entering to feed Bv watching t he parents carefully 
YOUNG we finally found several of the young 
bush-tits. They were readily tamed, and we were soon fairly over-run with tit- 
mouses. They climbed into our camera, and clung to our clothes as easily as a fly 
walks up a wall. They perched on our fingers and our heads and the parents had 
such implicit trust in us that they alighted wherever they found their children. 
Birds differ only in size and dress from some people, but to one who has studied 
long and carefully at the homes of different species, each feathered creature has a 
real character of its own. What does a cut-and-dried catalogue description mean? 
