I landed silently and stole up to the tent to see if he were exploring under the fly, as he sometimes did when I was away.  A curious sound, a hollow tunk, tunk, tunk, tunk-a-tunk, grew louder as I approached.  I stole to the big cedar, where I could see the fireplace and the little opening before my tent, and noticed first that I had left the cracker box open (it was almost empty) when I hurried away after the otter.  The curious sound was inside, growing more eager every moment—­tunk, tunk, tunk-a-trrrrrrr-runk, tunk, tunk!

I crept on my hands and knees to the box, to see what queer thing had found his way to the crackers, and peeped cautiously over the edge.  There were Killooleet, and Mrs. Killooleet, and the five little Killooleets, just seven hopping brown backs and bobbing heads, helping themselves to the crackers.  And the sound of their bills on the empty box made the jolliest tattoo that ever came out of a camping kit.

I crept away more cautiously than I had come, and, standing carelessly in my tent door, whistled the call I always used in feeding the birds.  Like a flash Killooleet appeared on the edge of the cracker box, looking very much surprised.  “I thought you were away; why, I thought you were away,” he seemed to be saying.  Then he clucked, and the tunk-a-tunk ceased instantly.  Another cluck, and Mrs. Killooleet appeared, looking frightened; then, one after another, the five little Killooleets bobbed up; and there they sat in a solemn row on the edge of the cracker box, turning their heads sidewise to see me better.

“There!” said Killooleet, “didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t hurt you?” And like five winks the five little Killooleets were back in the box, and the tunk-a-tunking began again.

This assurance that they might do as they pleased, and help themselves undisturbed to whatever they found, seemed to remove the last doubt from the mind of even the little gray mate.  After that they stayed most of the time close about my tent, and were never so far away, or so busy insect hunting, that they would not come when I whistled and scattered crumbs.  The little Killooleets grew amazingly, and no wonder!  They were always eating, always hungry.  I took good pains to give them less than they wanted, and so had the satisfaction of feeding them often, and of finding their tin plate picked clean whenever I came back from fishing.

Did the woods seem lonely to Killooleet when we paddled away at last and left the wilderness for another year?  That is a question which I would give much, or watch long, to answer.  There is always a regret at leaving a good camping ground, but I had never packed up so unwillingly before.  Killooleet was singing, cheery as ever; but my own heart gave a minor chord of sadness to his trill that was not there when he sang on my ridgepole.  Before leaving I had baked a loaf, big and hard, which I fastened with stakes at the foot of the old cedar, with a tin plate under it and a bark roof above, so that when it rained, and insects were hidden under the leaves, and their hunting was no fun because the woods were wet, Killooleet and his little ones would find food, and remember me.  And so we paddled away and left him to the wilderness.