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Updated: May 19, 2025
"How about all those trees he cuts down? If that isn't destroying, I don't know what is!" said Chatterer, and with each word jerked his tail as if somehow his tongue and tail were connected. "So it is," replied Old Mother Nature good-naturedly. "But just think of the number of trees you destroy." "I never have destroyed a tree in my life!" declared Chatterer indignantly.
The whole thing strengthened in me that obscure feeling of life being but a waste of days, which, half-unconsciously, had driven me out of a comfortable berth, away from men I liked, to flee from the menace of emptiness . . . and to find inanity at the first turn. Here was a man of recognized character and achievement disclosed as an absurd and dreary chatterer.
One may imagine that the reticent man would be more reticent on this subject than on any other; but we can feel confident that at least he was not a sceptic, for the confirmed sceptic inevitably becomes a chatterer.
So in spite of him Chatterer got past, and like a little red flash was up in the top of the tree where the big, fat nuts were. But he didn't have time to pick even one, for after him came Happy Jack so angry that Chatterer knew that he would fare badly if Happy Jack should catch him.
His laughing eyes terribly blue they looked in the mahogany setting of his lean face quizzed the chief, and his clean-shaven lips twitched ever so slightly. Chief Idigi looked at him curiously. Idigi was squat and fat, but wise. None the less he gossiped, for, as they say on the river, "Even the wise oochiri is a chatterer."
Later in the day, however, my sister came down to the ground, and there and in neighboring trees we romped and played all afternoon. And then came trouble. She was my sister, but that did not prevent her from treating me abominably, for she had inherited all the viciousness of the Chatterer.
I saw in Detroit a bird from the far north, a bird I had never before seen, the Bohemian waxwing, or chatterer. It breeds above the Arctic Circle and is common to both hemispheres. I said, When the Arctic birds come down, be sure there is a cold wave behind them. And so it proved. When the birds fail to give one a hint of the probable character of the coming winter, what reliable signs remain?
Ordinary fences, such as Farmer Brown has built around his fields, do not bother Lightfoot in the least. He can leap over them as easily as Peter Rabbit can jump over that little log he is sitting beside. "Just now, because it is summer, Lightfoot's coat is decidedly reddish in color and very handsome. But in winter it is wholly different." "I know," spoke up Chatterer the Red Squirrel.
It was the first time that Johnny had ever slept anywhere, excepting underground, and as he lay blinking his eyes, it seemed very strange and rather nice, too. "Well, well, well! What are you doing here?" cried a sharp voice. Johnny Chuck looked towards the open end of the old log. There, peeping in, was a little face as sharp as the voice. "Hello, Chatterer!" cried Johnny.
The three men looked on in puzzled helpless masculinity, and the Swami surveyed the scene as the two women clung to each other. "Vera," said Mr. Lenox, "are we permitted to know what this means?" Mrs. Lenox kept her arm around Madeline's shoulder as she turned. "It's only an ugly little fling in the Chatterer, Frank," she said, "and it sounds as though it might refer to Madeline.
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