They picked out their crack in the oak and began to build without any advice from me, winning little gray-crested titmice that they were. Their oak was right behind the ranch-house barn; I found it by hearing the bird sing there. The little fellow, warmed by his song, flitted up the tree a branch higher after each repetition of his loud cheery tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit'. Meanwhile his pretty mate, with bits of stick in her bill, walked down a crack in the oak trunk.
Thinking she had gone, I went to examine the place. I poked about with a twig but couldn't find the nest till, down in the bottom of the crack, I spied a little gray head and a pair of bright eyes looking up at me. The bird started forward as if to dart out, but changed her mind and stayed in while I took a hasty look and fled, more frightened than she by the intrusion.
The titmice had been flying back and forth from the hen-yard with chicken's feathers, and it seemed such slow work for them I thought I would help them. So the next day, when the pair were away, I stuffed a few white feathers[176] into the mouth of the nest and withdrew under the shadow of the barn to watch through my glass without being observed. Then my conscience began to trouble me. What if this interference should drive the gentle bird to desert her nest?
The Plain Titmouse in her Doorway. The Plain Titmouse in her Doorway.
When I heard the familiar chickadee call—the titmouse often chirrups like his cousin—it made me quake guiltily. What would the birds do? The gray pair came flying in with crests[177] raised, and my small friend hopped down to her doorway. She gave a start of surprise at sight of the feathers, but after a moment's hesitation went bravely in! While she was inside, her mate waited in the tree, singing for her; and when she came out, he flew away with her. Then I crept up to the oak, and to my delight found that all the feathers had disappeared. She evidently believed in taking what the gods provide. In fact, she seemed only to wish that they would provide more, for, after taking a second supply from me, she stood in the vestibule, cocked her crested head, and looked about as if expecting to see new treasures.
She had common-sense enough to take what she found at hand, but if she had not been such a plucky little builder she would have been scared away by the strange sights that afterwards met her at her nest. Once when she came, feathers were sticking in the bark all around the crack. She hesitated—the rush of her flight probably fanned the air so the white plumes waved in her face—she hesitated and looked around timidly before getting courage to go in; and on leaving the nest flew away in nervous haste; but she was soon back again, and ready to take the feathers down inside the oak. She caught hold of the tip of one that was wedged into a crack, and tugged and tugged till I was afraid she would get discouraged and go off without it. She got it, however,[178] and drew it in backwards. Then she attacked another feather, but finding that it came harder than the first, let go her hold and took an easier one. She was not to be daunted, though, and after stowing away the loose one came back for the tight one again, and persevered till she bent it in several places, besides breaking off the tip.
When she had flown off, I jumped up, ran to the oak, and stuffed the doorway full of feathers. Before I had finished, the family sentinel caught me—I had been in too much of a hurry and he had heard me walking over the cornstalks. He eyed me suspiciously and gave vent to his disapproval, but I addressed him in such friendly terms that he soon flew off and talked to his mate reassuringly, as if he had decided that it was all right after all. After their conversation she came back and made the best of her way right down through the feather-bed! I went away delighted with her perseverance, and charmed by her confidence and pretty performances.
The next day I heard the titmouse singing in an elder by the kitchen, and went out to see how the birds acted when gathering their own material. The songster was idly hunting through the branches, singing, while his mate—busy little housewife—was hard at work getting her building stuff. She had something in her beak when I caught sight of her, but in an instant was down on the ground after another bit. Then she flew up[179] in the tree looking among the leaves; in passing she swung a moment on a strap hanging from a branch; then flew down among the weeds, back up in the tree again; and so back and forth, over and over, her bill getting fuller and fuller.
I was glad to save her work, and interested to see how far she would accept my help. Once when I blocked the entrance with feathers and horsehair she stopped, and, though her bill was full, picked up the packet and flew out on a branch with it. Was she going to throw away my present? For a moment my faith in her was shaken. Perhaps her mate had been warning her to beware of me. She did drop the mat of horsehair—what did such a dainty Quaker lady as she want of horsehair?&mdash............