He never had counted the nests that he knew of, and it might be that among all the birds of the swamp some would be rare to her.
The feathered folk of the Limberlost were practically undisturbed save by their natural enemies.

It was very probable that among his chickens others as odd as the big black ones could be found.

If she wanted pictures of half-grown birds, he could pick up fifty in one morning's trip around the line, for he had fed, handled, and made friends with them ever since their eyes opened.
He had gathered bugs and worms all spring as he noticed them on the grass and bushes, and dropped them into the first little open mouth he had found.

The babies gladly had accepted this queer tri-parent addition to their natural providers.
When the week had passed, Freckles had his room crisp and glowing with fresh living things that represented every color of the swamp.

He carried bark and filled all the muckiest places of the trail.
It was middle July.