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Updated: October 17, 2026
Chickadees hopped and called, "chick-a-de-de-de" in the willows and wild-rose bushes that grew near their hiding-place; and the gentle little birds with their pretty coats were often within a few inches of the hands of the young hunters. In perfect silence they watched and admired these little friends, while glance or smile conveyed their appreciation of the bird-visits to each other.
Then all was still, save the chick-a-de-de-de, chick-a-de-de-de, that came constantly from the bushes about them. Out from the cover came the hunters, and with ready bow they followed along the trail. Yes there was blood on a log, and more on the dead leaves. The arrow had found its mark and they must go slowly in their trailing, lest they lose the meat.