Acadian Chickadee

Above the evergreens a pale pewter sky — remote, impassive as infinity: faint slurring sounds brot me to the cabin door. A fine hail was falling thru the spruce leaves with minor sibilance like the undertone of distant surf.

Jo emerged into the small clearing, the deer ashoulder giving him a topheavy appearance, surrounded by fluttering birds. As he came toward me with dark eyes gleaming in his copper face and white teeth showing in a grin, the fancy struck me that Mephisto had collected a cargo of tiny souls and was returning with them to camp.

The deer was unshipped with a deft side twist and Jo prepared to skin him.

"Dat feller," pointing to a Whiskey Jack perched in a spruce nearby, "he come at shot. I no like dose fellers — scare heem off — but dese babies I like. What you call eem?"

"Penthestes hudsonicus littoralis."

"Huh?" For a moment Jo was undecided whether or not I was keedin', but my straight face reassured him. "Dat name as long as de bird. No?"

"Pretty near, Jo. ACADIAN CHICKADEE is the English of it."

"Acadian? No know dat name. Me — I call eem flying mice."

The name was not inapt for the fluttering impatients, chee-de-de-deeing for the food they knew was forthcoming, were brown and white like the whitefooted mouse.

That was many, many years ago "when life was at the Spring" but I shall always remember Jo's stern, almost Indian, head surrounded by hungry Chickadees feeding on a bit of deer suet he had stuck in his hat.

During the hard winter of 1917 — '18 I renewed acquaintance with Acadian in hemlocks north of the house. Sharp chips almost as emphatic as the Scarlet Tanager's chip-bang first attracted my attention. Five of the little northern strangers were unconcernedly feeding with our familiar Blackcap. They came for the nut meats I held in my hand just as eagerly as members of the home guard.