Soon he began to take bits away with him, and I could hear him, just
inside the fringe of underbrush, persuading his mate to come too and
share his plate. But she was much shyer than he; it was several days
before I noticed her flitting in and out of the shadowy underbrush;
and when I tossed her the first crumb, she flew away in a terrible
fright. Gradually, however, Killooleet persuaded her that we were
kindly, and she came often to meals; but she would never come near, to
eat from my tin plate, till after I had gone away.

Never a day now passed that one or both of the birds did not rest on
my tent. When I put my head out, like a turtle out of his shell, in
the early morning to look at the weather, Killooleet would look down
from the projecting end of the ridgepole and sing good-morning. And
when I had been out late on the lake, night-fishing, or following the
inlet for beaver, or watching the grassy points for caribou, or just
drifting along shore silently to catch the night sounds and smells of
the woods, I would listen with childish anticipation for Killooleet's
welcome as I approached the landing. He had learned to recognize the
sounds of my coming, the rub of a careless paddle, the ripple of
water under the bow, or the grating of pebbles on the beach; and with
Simmo asleep, and the fire low, it was good to be welcomed back by a
cheery little voice in the darkness; for he always sang when he heard
me. Sometimes I would try to surprise him; but his sleep was too light
and his ears too keen. The canoe would glide up to the old cedar and
touch the shore noiselessly; but with the first crunch of gravel under
my foot, or the rub of my canoe as I lifted it out, he would waken;
and his song, all sweetness and cheer, _I'm here, sweet
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet_, would ripple out of the dark
underbrush where his nest was.