the old orchard. But what had they done with it? "Perhaps," I thought,
"they dropped it to deceive me." Chickadee does that sometimes. "But
why did one bird stay on the rail? Perhaps"--Well, I would look and
see.

I left my stump as the idea struck me, and began to examine the posts
of the old fence very carefully. Chickadee's nest was there somewhere.
In the second post on the left I found it, a tiny knot-hole, which
Chickadee had hollowed out deep and lined with rabbit fur. It was well
hidden by the vines that almost covered the old post, and gray moss
grew all about the entrance. A prettier nest I never found.

I went back to my stump and sat down where I could just see the dark
little hole that led to the nest. No other birds interested me now
till the chickadees came back. They were soon there, hopping about on
the rail as before, with just a wee note of surprise in their soft
twitter that I had changed my position. This time I was not to be
deceived by a gymnastic performance, however interesting. I kept my
eyes fastened on the nest. The male was undoubtedly going through with
his most difficult feats, and doing his best to engage my attention,
when I saw his mate glide suddenly from behind the post and disappear
into her doorway. I could hardly be sure it was a bird. It seemed
rather as if the wind had stirred a little bundle of gray moss. Had
she moved slowly I might not have seen her, so closely did her soft
gray cloak blend with the weather-beaten wood and the moss.

In a few moments she reappeared, waited a moment with her tiny head
just peeking out of the knot-hole, flashed round the post out of
sight, and when I saw her again it was as she reappeared suddenly
beside the male.