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.
In summer time Chickadee deserts us and we must seek him in the fields,
and that is how we came to find the fence-post. We sat waiting for birds
to bathe, but waited in vain. They bathed up-stream and they bathed
down-stream. We saw them drying their feathers, but they would not bathe
by us. A dripping Chickadee flew overhead and sat preening his feathers
in a sweetgum tree. How nearly we had come to seeing that bath! (a thing
we had never achieved). In despair we crossed the road and hid behind
the sassafras hedge. Presently something strange passed us and there was
Dame Chickadee with a very queer burden. Imagine yourself with a
mouthful of excelsior larger than your head, and you will have some idea
of her comical appearance. She peered at us from behind her treasure
first with one eye and then with the other. We were all attention. A
dozen times she darted towards the old fence, but we were too alarming
and she could not make up her mind to brave us. Each time she retreated
to the sweetgum, holding tight to her bundle—it might have been a
clematis blossom, I could not say. It was the first time I had ever seen
a Chickadee look self-conscious. At the same time we saw that
Boy-Chickadee had dipped in once more and was dripping wet. It was
maddening. At last she made a wide curve towards us and disappeared. I
sprang to the fence-post and discovered the round hole, and with an
ecstatic catch of the breath I put one finger in. A bunch of indignant
feathers hurled itself against my hand and out came the finger and out
came she and whisked away with such lightning rapidity that we barely
saw her. The hole was too deep and too well shadowed to tell us anything
more than that it had a secret in its keeping and although we should
have liked to camp by the post it was not to be.
At our next visit we found Dame Chickadee setting and Boy Chickadee
feeding her; again, and the post had become a nursery. It seemed too
ludicrous that such babes-in-the-woods should ever attain to the dignity
of fatherhood and motherhood; but this time neither parent was there to
be laughed at, and as I tapped at the door a perfectly intelligible
“Day-day-day-day” came from the nursery; the babes had already learned
to talk!
It was so long before we visited them again that we expected to find the
post deserted. There was no sign of occupancy and I felt depressed
because it was all over. But a gentle tap brought a tiny, angular
cranium and a careworn baby face to the door. It didn’t seem possible
that Boy Chickadee could have such a homely bairn! We withdrew in haste
when he threatened to come out; but we had summoned him and the moment
had come to seek his fortune. The youngster stepped into the door and
set sail straight across the wide roadway. When we caught a rear view of
the tiny sailboat our gravity was undone, for not a vestige of tail
adorned it and he was the most unfinished fledgling we had ever seen.
This was the last sign of life the old fence-post yielded, but I cannot
learn to believe it final. I am constantly expecting to see more
Chickadees set sail, and its possibilities still haunt me.
Elizabeth Nunemacher.