Chummy took a drink from my water dish in which was a rusty nail to give me a little iron for my blood, then he said, “We’re clean birds in this neighborhood. Varsity birds hate lice, so I think Slow-Boy and Susan were quite right to drive these strangers away—what do you think, Dicky-Dick?”
I sighed quite heavily, for such a small bird as I am. Then I said, “It is true, though it oughtn’t to be, that clean birds instead of taking dirty birds in hand and trying to do them good, usually drive them away. It seems the easiest way.”
Chummy was wiping his beak hard on one of my perches. “Your Missie certainly knows where to buy her seeds. These are remarkably fresh and crisp.”
“She always goes to wholesale houses,” I said, “and watches the man to see that he takes the seeds out of a bag or big box. Some women buy their seeds in packages which perhaps have been standing on the grocer’s shelf for months.”
“You look a well-nourished bird,” said Chummy. “My Jennie is very particular with our young ones, and we have the finest-looking ones in the neighborhood. If she is giving a brown-tail moth larva, for example, she hammers it well before she puts it in the baby beaks. Some sparrows are so careless, and thrust food to their young ones that is only partly prepared.”
I said nothing, for I had not yet seen any of Chummy’s young ones, and he came out of the cage and, settling down on the top of it, began to clean his feathers and pick little bits of dead flesh off his skin.
“Billie,” I said, “it’s early in the afternoon and you’ve had your first nap; can’t you amuse our caller by telling him about your early life? He said the other day he’d like to hear it.”
Billie rose and stretched herself. She knew that I knew she would like to do something for
Chummy because she had spoken harshly about him.
Chummy spoke up, “I like you, Billie, for I notice you never chase birds as some of the neighborhood dogs do.”