f, Peter. You know you are never really warm in winter unless you
have plenty to eat..."

"That's so," replied Peter thoughtfully. "I never happened to think of
it before. Just the same, I don't see how you find food enough on the
trees when they are all bare in winter."

"Dee, Dee, Chickadee!
Leave that matter just to me,"

Chuckled Tommy Tit. "You ought to know by this time Peter Rabbit, that
a lot of different kinds of bugs lay eggs on the twigs and trunks of
trees. Those eggs would stay there all winter and in the spring hatch
out into lice and worms if it were not for me. Why, sometimes in a
single day I find and eat almost five hundred eggs of those little green
plant lice that do so much damage in the spring and summer. Then there
are little worms that bore in just under the bark, and there are other
creatures who sleep the winter away in little cracks in the bark. Oh,
there is plenty for me to do in the winter. I am one of the policemen of
the trees. Downy and Hairy the Woodpeckers, Seep-Seep the Brown Creeper
and Yank-Yank the Nuthatch are others. If we didn't stay right here on
the job all winter, I don't know what would become of the Old Orchard."

Tommy Tit hung head downward from a twig while he picked some tiny
insect eggs from the under side of it. It didn't seem to make the least
difference to Tommy whether he was right side up or upside down. He was
a little animated bunch of black and white feathers, not much bigger
than Jenny Wren. The top of his head, back of his neck and coat were
shining black. The sides of his head and neck were white. His back was
ashy. His sides were a soft cream-buff, and his wing and tail feathers
were edged with white. His tiny bill was black, and his little black
eyes snapped and twinkled in a way good to see. Not one among all
Peter's friends is such a merry-hearted little fellow as Tommy Tit the
Chickadee. Merriment and happiness bubble out of him all the time, no
matter what the weather is. He is the friend of everyone and seems to
feel that everyone is his friend.

"I've noticed," said Peter, "that birds who do not sing at any other
time of year sing in the spring. 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