TITMICE. 
song, as its only utterance is “ sifi, sifi, sifi,” repeated in sudden 
bursts with a clear bell-like sound. Its chief recommendation 
as a cage-bird is its incessant activity. In a wild state it is 
their habit to make provision for the winter by collecting and 
concealing seeds, nuts, &c., in crevices and between the bark 
and wood of trees. This storing propensity is not forgotten 
by them when in confinement. If in an aviary, they will 
select an obscure corner and there hide away as much seed as 
the magazine will hold, guarding it with jealous care, and 
occasionally overhauling it to see that none has been removed. 
Even when by itself in a cage, it will empty the seed-box and 
pile the seed in a corner, covering it over with whatever it can 
scrape together. That their intention really is to “ put by for 
a rainy day,” a coletit possessed by a friend amply convinced 
me. Hearing that the little creature was addicted to concealing 
the contents of its seed-box, I persuaded my friend not to 
replenish it for a day or two. The result was that the tit 
sat for a long time regarding his empty glass, and then, seeming 
to think that “ hard times ” had really come, he uncovered his 
magazine, made a scanty meal, and covered it over again. For 
three days he was thus left to himself, and such was his 
economy that at the end of that time he had not consumed 
more than he did in one day in times of plenty. 
Respecting the tits’ eccentric notions of what is an eligible 
building- site, Stanley relates that a pair of these birds built 
their nest in the upper part of an old pump, fixing it on the 
pier on which the handle worked. It happened that, during 
the time of building and laying the eggs, the pump had not 
been in use ; when again set going the female was sitting, and 
it was naturally supposed that the motion of the handle would 
drive her away. The young brood, however, were hatched 
safely, without any other misfortune than the loss of a part of 
the tail of the sitting bird, which was rubbed off by the friction 
of the pump-handle. The same authority tells of another pair 
of titmice, who fixed on a frightful spot for their nest — the 
skeleton-mouth of a man hung in chains for murder. 
The Long-tailed, or Bottle-tit. — As truly says Bishop 
Stanley, the tit tribe might be called our minor jackdaws, so 
pert and bustling, never at rest, always prying about, peering 
into every chink and cranny, and even in the breeding season, 
— when most buds retire to more unfrequented haunts, — still 
lurking about our homesteads, and building their odd little 
nests in the oddest situations. 
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