f the barn, looking and listening before coming in. Quite
satisfied after a minute or two that nobody was inside, he scrambled
in and flew down to a corner in which was a lot of old hay and
rubbish. Here he began a great rustle and stirring about, like a
squirrel in autumn leaves, probably after insects, though it was too
dark to see just what he was doing. It sounded part of the time as if
he were scratching aside the hay, much as a hen would have done. If
so, his two little front toes must have made sad work of it, with the
two hind ones always getting doubled up in the way. When I thumped
suddenly against the side of the barn, he hurled himself like a shot
at one of the holes, alighting just below it, and stuck there in a way
that reminded me of the chewed-paper balls that boys used to throw
against the blackboard in school. I could hear plainly the thump of
his little feet as he struck. With the same movement, and without
pausing an instant, he dived through headlong, aided by a spring from
his tail, much as a jumping jack goes over the head of his stick, only
much more rapidly. Hardly had he gone before another appeared, to go
through the same program.

Though much shyer than other birds of the farm, he often ventures up
close to the house and doorway in the early morning, before any one is
stirring. One spring morning I was awakened by a strange little
pattering sound, and, opening my eyes, was astonished to see one of
these birds on the sash of the open window within five feet of my
hand. Half closing my eyes, I kept very still and watched. Just in
front of him, on the bureau, was a stuffed golden-wing, with wings and
tail spread to show to best advantage the beautiful plumage. He had
seen it in flying by, and now stood hopping back and forth along
the window sash, uncertain whether to come in or not. Sometimes he
spread his wings as if on the point of flying in; then he would turn
his head to look curiously at me and at the strange surroundings, and,
afraid to venture in, endeavor to attract the attention of the stuffed
bird, whose head was turned away. In the looking-glass he saw his own
movements repeated. Twice he began his love call very softly, but cut
it short, as if frightened. The echo of the small room made it seem so
different from the same call in the open fields that I think he
doubted even his own voice.

[Illustration]

Almost over his head, on a bracket against the wall, was another bird,
a gr