An insect
must hide well to escape those bright eyes. He is helping you raise
your plants. He looks up brightly as you approach, hops fearlessly
down and looks at you with frank, innocent eyes. _Chick a dee dee dee
dee! Tsic a de-e-e?_--this last with a rising inflection, as if he
were asking how you were, after he had said good-morning. Then he
turns to his insect hunting again, for he never wastes more than a
moment talking. But he twitters sociably as he works.
You meet him again in the depths of the wilderness. The smoke of your
camp fire has hardly risen to the spruce tops when close beside you
sounds the same cheerful greeting and inquiry for your health. There
he is on the birch twig, bright and happy and fearless! He comes down
by the fire to see if anything has boiled over which he may dispose
of. He picks up gratefully the crumbs you scatter at your feet. He
trusts you.--See! he rests a moment on the finger you extend, looks
curiously at the nail, and sounds it with his bill to see if it
shelters any harmful insect. Then he goes back to his birch twigs.
On summer days he never overflows with the rollicksomeness of bobolink
and oriole, but takes his abundance in quiet contentment. I suspect it
is because he works harder winters, and his enjoyment is more deep
than theirs.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140