g a deep and sometimes winding tunnel downward.
In the dry wood at the bottom he makes a little round pocket and lines
it with the very softest material. When one finds such a nest, with
five or six white eggs delicately touched with pink lying at the
bottom, and a pair of chickadees gliding about, half fearful, half
trustful, it is altogether such a beautiful little spot that I know
hardly a boy who would be mean enough to disturb it.

One thing about the nests has always puzzled me. The soft lining has
generally more or less rabbit fur. Sometimes, indeed, there is nothing
else, and a softer nest one could not wish to see. But where does he
get it? He would not, I am sure, pull it out of Br'er Rabbit, as the
crow sometimes pulls wool from the sheep's backs. Are his eyes bright
enough to find it hair by hair where the wind has blown it, down among
the leaves? If so, it must be slow work; but Chickadee is very
patient. Sometimes in spring you may surprise him on the ground, where
he never goes for food; but at such times he is always shy, and flits
up among the birch twigs, and twitters, and goes through an
astonishing gymnastic performance, as if to distract your attention
from his former unusual one. That is only because you are near his
nest. If he has a bit of rabbit fur in his bill meanwhile, your eyes
are not sharp enough to see it.

Once after such a performance I pretended to go away; but I only hid
in a pine thicket. Chickadee listened awhile, then hopped down to the
ground, picked up something that I could not see, and flew away. I
have no doubt it was the lining for his nest near by. He had dropped
it when I surprised him, so that I should not suspect him of
nest-building.

Such a bright, helpful little fellow should have never an enemy in the
world; and I think he has to contend against fewer than most birds.
The shrike is his worst enemy, the swift swoop of his cruel beak being
always fatal in a flock of chickadees. Fortunately the shrike is rare
with us; one seldom finds his nest, with poor Chickadee impaled on a
sharp thorn near by, surrounded by a varied lot of ugly beetles. I
suspect the owls sometimes hunt him at night; but he sleeps in the
thick pine shrubs, close up against a branch, with the pine needles
all about him, making it very dark; and what with the darkness, and
the needles to stick in his eyes, the owl generally gives up the
search and hunts in more open woods.

Sometimes the hawks try