“All this should be a hint to us to leave a few nooks about the place for a pair of Phœbes to appropriate for a homestead; a little shelf under suitable shelter is all they ask, or, better yet, nail a few wide braces under the roof of a wagon, cattle, or wood shed, even if it does not need supporting. Then, before the first Robin or Chipping-sparrow awakens, when the first flush of light penetrates the darkness of night, you will have a home sentinel at hand to cry, ‘Phœbe! I see, all’s well!’ to the morning, and at evening she will blend her voice with the Whip-poor-will’s in wishing you good night, for though Phœbe is early to come in the spring and early to rise in the morning, she goes late to bed and meets the bats in the sky during her evening excursions.” “Maybe Phœbes don’t really sing, but they think they do,” said Tommy, as Gray Lady looked in vain in her scrap-book for a poem that should do the bird justice and be catching in rhythm. “Sometimes in May they get up on the roof or the telephone wire or something like that, and tumble somersaults into the air and cry ‘phœbe-phœbe-phœbe-phœbe,’ on and on and on and over again, like the Katydids and Katydidn’ts in the maples at night, only the Phœbe is so worked up she can only think of her own name.” “Then this verse of Lowell’s at least is true,” said Gray Lady, closing the scrap-book. “Phœbe is all it has to say In plaintive cadence o’er and o’er, Like children that have lost their way And know their names, but nothing more.” ----- [5] _The Kingfishers’ Home Life_, W. L. Baily in _Bird-Lore_. XXIV THE TIDE HAS TURNED THE MASQUERADING CHICKADEE I came to the woods in the dead of the year, I saw the wing’d sprite thro’ the green-brier peeping: “Darling of Winter, you’ve nothing to fear, Though the branches are bare and the cold earth is sleeping!” With a _dee, dee, dee_! the sprite seemed to say, “I’m friends with the Maytime as well as December, And I’ll meet you here on a fair-weather day; Here, in the green-brier thicket,—remember!” * * * * * * I came to the woods in the spring of the year, And I followed a voice that was most entreating: _Phebe! Phebe!_ (and yet more near), _Phebe! Phebe!_ it kept repeating! I gave up the search, when, not far away, I saw the wing’d sprite thro’ the green-brier peeping, With a _Phebe! Phebe!_ that seemed to say, “I told you so! and my promise I’m keeping.” “You’ll know me again, when you meet me here, Whether you come in December or Maytime: I’ve a _dee, dee, dee!_ for the Winter’s ear, And a _Phebe! Phebe!_ for Spring and Playtime!” —Edith M. Thomas. * * * * *