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There are other sounds, now that the shrill cry of the hyla is stilled the cawing of crows beyond the wood, the scratching of a beetle in the crisp leaves, the cheep of a prying chickadee, the tiny chirrup of a cricket in the grass remnants of sounds from the summer, and echoes as of single strings left vibrating after the concert is over and the empty hall is closed.
Let us begin with the familiar little tomtit. In his valuable manual, "Birds of Eastern North America," Dr. Frank M. Chapman calls the little black-capped chickadee an "animated bunch of black and white feathers." That is certainly a graphic and correct way of putting it, for no bird is more active and alert than this little major with the black skull cap and ashy-blue coat.
He had something in his beak; so I watched to find his nest; for I wanted very much to see him at work. Chickadee had never seemed afraid of me, and I thought he would trust me now. But he didn't. He would not go near his nest. Instead he began hopping about the old rail, and pretended to be very busy hunting for insects.
"I don't believe a word of it! Nobody ever yet caught Old Granny Fox napping, and nobody ever will." "I don't care whether you believe it or not; it's so, for I saw him," retorted Sammy Jay. "You you you " began Reddy Fox. "Go ask Tommy Tit the Chickadee if it isn't true. He saw him too," interrupted Sammy Jay. "Dee, dee, dee, Chickadee!
At its best their bearing is only that of patient submission to the inevitable. They remind us of the summer gone and the summer coming, rather than brighten the winter that is now upon us; like friends who commiserate us in some affliction, but are not able to comfort us. How different the chickadee! In the worst weather his greeting is never of condolence, but of good cheer.
It was saying over and over: "Dee, dee, dee! Oh, me, me! Some folks can talk so very brave And then such cowards be." It was Tommy Tit the Chickadee. Reddy couldn't think of a thing to say in reply, and so he hurried on, trying to find a place where he would be left in peace. But nowhere that he could go was he free from those taunting voices.
Yes, my dear, I'm coming! Chickadee- dee-dee!" And with a wink and a nod to Peter Rabbit, off flew Tommy Tit. Foolish questions waste time, but wise questions lead to knowledge. Peter Rabbit. "Little Miss Fuzzytail!" Peter said it over and over again, as he sat on the sunning-bank in the far corner of the Old Pasture, where Tommy Tit the Chickadee had left him. "It's a pretty name," said Peter.
Soon the snow began to melt. We heard musical droppings from our eaves. The brook broke from its manacles. I could see patches of dead grass and dark earth between the disappearing snow on the fields. At break of day we heard the chirrup of the chickadee, the sparrow. I now resumed my plunge at the brook.
At the same time, he is not full of continual merriment like the chickadee, nor occasionally in a rapture like the goldfinch. Life with him is pitched in a low key; comfortable rather than cheerful, and never jubilant. And yet, for all the towhee's careless demeanor, you soon begin to suspect him of being deep.
"I've noticed that he is very fond of the same house year after year. Is there anybody else?" Again Jenny Wren nodded. "Yank-Yank the Nuthatch uses an old house, I'm told, but he usually goes up North for his nesting," said she. "Tommy Tit the Chickadee sometimes uses an old house. Then again he and Mrs. Chickadee get fussy and make a house for themselves.
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