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Without ceasing a moment in their busy search for food, the fluffy feathered members of the flock call to each other, "Chick-a-chick-a-dee-dee!" but now and then the heart of some little fellow bubbles over, and he rests an instant, sending out a sweet, tender, high call, a "Phoe-be!" love note, which warms our ears in the frosty air and makes us feel a real affection for the brave little mites.
Frosty air, rimmed tree-trunks, naked branches, aurora all seem as unreal as stage properties, when phoe-be! comes to our ears. Yes, there is the little dark-feathered, tail-wagging fellow, hungry no doubt, but sure that when the sun warms up, Mother Nature will strew his aerial breakfast-table with tiny gnats, precocious, but none the less toothsome for all that.
Do you have a spring song, Tommy Tit?" "Well, I don't know as you would call it a song, Peter," chuckled Tommy. "No, I hardly think you would call it a song. But I have a little love call then which goes like this: Phoe-be! Phoe-be!" It was the softest, sweetest little whistle, and Tommy had rightly called it a love call.
"That little girl is so worried about her lost sister that she doesn't pay any attention to me. But I'll help her just the same." So he hopped on toward where he heard the voice calling, and pretty soon, believe me, he heard two voices. One cried out: "Phoebe! Phoebe!" And the other one called just the same, only a little more slowly, like this: "Phoe-be! Phoe-be!"
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