A whir and sweep of snow-white wings, Soft brown-flecked breasts, now here, now there A-sway upon the ragged weeds Or darting through the wintry air. I watch you from the frosted pane Beside the glowing hearth-stone warm, And shudder as I hear the wail Of angry winds before the storm. —Mary Morrison. BOY-CHICKADEE. I doubt if any one was ever haunted by a more commonplace object than a fence-post; yet, terminating a fence that borders a little farm, there is a gray old post which has haunted my imagination for several years. The fence has long ceased to fence anything in or out; the uppermost rail is the only one left and that is fastened to my post about five inches from the top. Just under the lee of that rail is a round hole which is rather jagged about the lower edge as if gnawed by sharp little teeth. Every time I travel that road I am impelled to stop and put a finger into that hole. I always expect to discover a secret, yet never do. Still, the post haunts me for once Boy-Chickadee kept house there. Boy-Chickadee is one of our smallest birds. He wears a dumpy little gray coat surmounted by a pair of bright black eyes under a velvety black cap. Dear to the heart of every bird-lover, he is especially so in winter. It is then that his crystal pendulum of song swings lightly to and fro where other bird-song is rare. It is rather plaintive—two minor notes swing to the left, then two more to the right—and seems to belong only to frosty mornings. Boy-Chickadee stays to wish you “A Merry Christmas” and “A Happy New Year,” and comes daily to dine on sunflower seeds stowed in a large gourd for him. I should be ashamed to say how many seeds he consumes at a sitting, or flitting better describes it. He flits in for a seed, then out to the apple-tree to hammer it, uttering gurgles of content all the while. He spends so much time eating them that I eye my store anxiously wondering if it will hold out under such onslaughts. Sometimes he brings a companion and they take turns going into the gourd. His British enemies tag him enviously and hang about the gourd-door; but it is cut too small for them and they can only gaze in. It is Boy-Chickadee’s cache.