The Bird Is the Word?

Rob Kyff
Tue, 13 Jan 2026 23:00:00 -0800
Lifestyle

The bird feeder in my backyard has been aflutter this winter with birds and words.

First to arrive each morning are the chickadees. In "Walden," Henry David Thoreau tells us how these perky, personable pals enjoyed alighting on the arm of his friend, a genial woodchopper who said he "liked to have the little fellers about him."

Thoreau described their chirps as "faint flitting lisping notes, like the tinkling of icicles in the grass," and, in fact, the name "chickadee" is an imperfect attempt to imitate that sound. We sometimes call the red squirrel a "chickaree" for the same reason.
Updated: Wed Jan 14, 2026

The bird feeder in my backyard has been aflutter this winter with birds and words.

First to arrive each morning are the chickadees. In "Walden," Henry David Thoreau tells us how these perky, personable pals enjoyed alighting on the arm of his friend, a genial woodchopper who said he "liked to have the little fellers about him."

Thoreau described their chirps as "faint flitting lisping notes, like the tinkling of icicles in the grass," and, in fact, the name "chickadee" is an imperfect attempt to imitate that sound. We sometimes call the red squirrel a "chickaree" for the same reason.

Waiting patiently on the edge of the feeder hubbub are slate-colored juncos. Named for the Spanish word for reed ("junco") because they favor the cover of rushes, these bubs occasionally bob to the hub, but prefer to feed on the ground. The Spanish word "junco" also gives us the name "jonquil" for the flowering plant.

A male cardinal, imperial in his resplendent red robe, sometimes presides aloofly at the hem of the mayhem. Occasionally, he even deigns to dine at the hometown buffet.

Cardinals are named for the male bird's resemblance to the red-robed cardinal of the Catholic church. "Cardinal" derives from the Latin "cardo," hinge, because a cardinal was considered the hinge of the church.

Once in a great while, my feeder attracts an entire college of cardinals who dart and weave busily around as if they were frantically scheming to choose a pope.

Much of my delight comes from observing the tufted titmouse. Sporting the spiky Mohawk of a punk rocker, this ruffled rogue appears slightly disheveled and comical as he dives and dips for seeds.

Etymologically, he's not a "mouse" at all. The second part of his name comes from the Anglo-Saxon "mase," from the German "meise" (a small bird). To later English speakers, "mase" sounded like "mouse," hence, the plural "titmice."

(The "dormouse," the Old-World rodent of "Alice and Wonderland" fame, isn't really a mouse either. His name may come from the French "dormir," to sleep.)

The first syllable of "titmouse" is related to the Norse "tittr," meaning "a tack or pin." "Tit," which has come to mean any small item, is used in other bird names, such as "titlark," "tomtit" and "titbit."

But Mark Twain might have had another meaning of this word in mind when he was greeted by a hostess who thought she was more clever than he.

Said she, "I am told you are a great wit, but tonight I shall give you tit for tat."

Said he, "Tat, Madam."