“I’m taking notes, Jean,” said Nan. “We’ll keep a record of what the S. P.’s see.”
“Then put down that the tree sparrow is called the ‘winter chippy’ sometimes,” Miss Haynes added. “The chipping sparrow is a little like it, though that has no spot on its breast.”
“I saw a little streak of brown on the tree sparrow’s cheek,” meditatively remarked Jean, to the amusement of the crowd. But Miss Haynes told them that it was proper to speak of “cheeks” with birds.
Back to the top of the bank they climbed, to see bronzed grackles, which they knew as common blackbirds; more bluebirds, and a small flock of quail that scurried across an open space into underbrush.
But Miss Haynes said, “Listen. There is one more very common little bird that I’ll wager half of the United States sees and does not know. That is the tufted titmouse. I thought I heard one. Here it comes.”
Something flew into a tree above their heads and great were the twistings of necks and pointing of glasses in the effort to see. A second bird followed the first and there was what Jean called “conversation.”
“Sounds like kissing,” said Molly, listening, while Jean looked through her glass.
“More like chirruping to a horse,” declared Phoebe.
In a moment a clear, sweet whistle came from above their heads. “Spring is here now,” said Miss Haynes. “The tufted titmouse has given us his word.”
“Was that it, that ‘Peter, Peter, Peter’?” Fran asked.