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Volume VIII May-June 1906 Number 3 
The Chickadee at Home 7 
BY WILLIAM L. FINLEY 
PHOTOGRAPHS BY HERMAN T. BO HI, MAX 
T HE air was crisp. The snow crunched under foot. The water of Fulton 
Creek slid noiselessly thru the lush grasses that hung along the bank. The 
clump of tall firs up the hillside was roughly inked against the gray clouds. 
The dead hush of winter had crept up the canyon. Suddenly a sound like the 
tinkling of tiny bell-voices broke the stillness. Across the long white vista be- 
tween the pointed firs scurried a whole troupe of black-and-white fairies. 
I stood in the same place a little over three months later. Where I had seen a 
dozen fairies I now saw only two. Where the rest of the troupe had gone, I do 
not know. These two seemed happy by themselves. I stood there and watched 
one of the midgets whirl over to a nearer bush. I looked around but saw nothing 
but the wreck of an old alder — dead, rotten, useless — broken off five feet from the 
ground, not even good for fire wood, almost ready to return as earth to the ground 
from which it sprang — rotten, but not entirely useless. It gave me a suggestion. 
I have never found the chickadee moody. I’ve seen him when it was so 
cold I could not understand just how he kept his tiny body warm, when it looked 
like all hunting for him and no game. If he was hungry, he didn’t show it. The 
wren goes south and lives in sunshine and plenty all winter. He goes wild with 
delight when he returns home in the spring. The chickadee winters in the north. 
He endures the cold and hunger of the dreary months. In the spring, his cheer 
seems just the same. He doesn’t bubble over. He takes his abundance in quiet 
contentment. 
The glade up Fulton Creek just suited the chickadees. It was rarely invaded 
by small boys. Chickadee likes human society when the snow comes and food 
grows scarce in the woods, but just as soon as he falls in love and his mind turns 
to housekeeping, he looks for a quiet nook. 
The next time I strolled up the creek, one of the newly wedded pair suddenly 
met me just where the path branched a few yards below the alder stump. L didn’t 
see him come, but he appeared right on the limbs of the maple over 
i The subject of this sketch is the Oregon chickadee ( Panes atricapillus occidentalis). 
