Mr. Bolles was the author of several books on outdoor life. He possessed a delightful style, reminding one of John Burroughs. I will quote from his book, "From Blomidon to Smoky," a record of a visit to my cabin:
"I have a friend who lives alone, summer and winter, in a tiny hut amid the woods. The doctors told him he must die, so he escaped from them to Nature, made his peace with her, and regained his health. To the wild creatures of the pasture, the oak woods, and the swamps he is no longer a man, but a faun; he is one of their own kind,—shy, alert, silent. They, having learned to trust him, have come a little nearer to men. I once went to his hut when he was absent, and stretched myself in the sunlight by his tiny doorstep. Presently, two chickadees came to a box of bird-seed, swinging from the pine-limb overhead, and fed there, cracking the seeds one by one with their bills. Then from the swamp, a pair of catbirds appeared, and fed upon crumbs scattered over the ground just at my feet. A chipmunk ran back and forth past them, coming almost within reach of my hand; soon after a song-sparrow (Wabbles) drove away the catbirds, and then sung a little sotto voce song to me before helping itself to the crumbs. When my friend returned, he told me the story of this song-sparrow; how he saved its life, and had been rewarded by three years of gratitude, confidence, and affection on the part of the brave little bird. He seemed fearful lest I should think him overimaginative in recital, so he gave me details about the sparrow and its ways which would have convinced a jury of the bird's identity and strong individuality. The secret of my friend's friendship with these birds was that, by living together, each had, by degrees, learned to know the other."
The chickadees are great bird-wags. In various ways they play tricks on other birds. When there is hemp-seed in the box, the chickadees are like a lot of children turned out of school. If a tree-sparrow happens along, he takes possession by driving the other birds away. A saucy chickadee will give the danger-call, which sounds to me like "butcher bird, butcher bird." The tree-sparrow darts into the bushes and the chickadees pile onto the seed-box. The sparrow finding that there is no enemy about soon returns to the seed-box. Inside of three minutes the same, or another chickadee, gives the alarm and away goes the sparrow into the bushes. This time he knows that he has been fooled, so when he comes back he chases the chickadee through the trees around the dooryard. The chickadee is too quick for the sparrow; he darts this way and that, laughing and shouting at the top of his voice. The other chickadees do a lot of laughing and shouting too, at the same time they attend to the seed-box. The sparrow always flies away when he hears the danger-call. I suppose he thinks it better to be safe than to be sorry.
Several years ago I placed a box in the top of an oak-tree, thinking that bluebirds might be induced to nest therein. While I was nailing the box to a limb, a pair of chickadees had overlooked the work. These chickadees were old friends, and naturally thought that I was making a nest for their benefit. The next day when I had returned from the city, I found the birds engaged in carrying cotton batting into the box. These chickadees were old and had made four nests, so the selection of a box and cotton batting was a marked departure from the regular nesting habit. While the little lady was sitting I made it a practice every day to climb the tree and offer her food. When I had turned the cover back the bird would flutter her wings as young birds do when begging food. But the little wife would take no food from me if her husband was present. She would call to him "chip, chip," and he would hop to me for food. When he got it, he would feed his wife, while she fluttered her wings and acted like a young bird. When eight little chicks thrust up their open bills for food, the parents appeared brimful of joy and happiness. They rushed around in search of food, calling to each other all the time. I climbed the tree one day at noontime. The young birds were full grown. I took one in my hand and the mother said something to me in her language. I thought that she asked me if the bird was old enough to leave the nest. I told her it was, and the sooner they got out the better, for the nest was too small and was hot besides. That noon I went over to Cedar Swamp, and did not return until after sunset. When I had reached the cabin the chickadees hopped to my shoulder and in heartrending bird language tried to tell me that something had happened to their babies. I climbed the tree and found the nest empty. On a boulder I had placed a pair of rubber boots to dry One of the boots was missing. Two boys had robbed the chickadees and had carried away the young birds in the rubber boot. The bereaved birds remained near the cabin all night, and I did not sleep, because they talked to me in the most pitiful language I had ever heard from a bird. The next day I traced the wretched thieves, but the little birds were dead.
Before leaving the chickadees, I wish to mention something that has impressed itself upon my mind, during the last eighteen years. That is, that the chackadees would make desirable park-birds. Compare these busy little birds with the English sparrow, and one can but feel sorry that we imported the alien, when we already possessed the native.
A flock of my chickadees, if removed to Boston Common, would thrive and increase rapidly, and from a small beginning all the parks of the country could be stocked. The chickadees rear two broods in a season, usually eight in a brood. These birds hunt the trees for insect life, while the undesirable alien hunts the streets for indigested food. Contrast the quarrelsome "chirps" of the one, with the cheery "chickadee, chickadee" of the other. Then the mating-song. How it would fit into the glorious spring mornings. This song is called the "phœbe note of the chickadee" by many writers. The only reason that explains why this name clings to the chickadee's song, is that some early writer adopted it, and later writers followed suit without taking pains to investigate. There is as great difference between the two as there is between black and white. The song of the phœbe-bird is in two notes, delivered in a querulous, plaintive tone, while that of the chickadee is in three notes, as loud and cheery as the whistle of Whittier's "Barefoot boy." "Tea's ready," it seems to say, with the accent on the first syllable.