ut
any more when I call, but as I step away I can get a glimpse of him
inside looking cold and reserved. He is a late riser, especially if it
is a cold or disagreeable morning, in this respect being like the barn
fowls; it is sometimes near nine o'clock before I see him leave his
tree. On the other hand, he comes home early, being in, if the day is
unpleasant, by four P.M. He lives all alone; in this respect I do not
commend his example. Where his mate is, I should like to know.

I have discovered several other woodpeckers in adjoining orchards, each
of which has a like home, and leads a like solitary life. One of them
has excavated a dry limb within easy reach of my hand, doing the work
also in September. But the choice of tree was not a good one; the limb
was too much decayed, and the workman had made the cavity too large; a
chip had come out, making a hole in the outer wall. Then he went a few
inches down the limb and began again, and excavated a large, commodious
chamber, but had again come too near the surface; scarcely more than the
bark protected him in one place, and the limb was very much weakened.
Then he made another attempt still farther down the limb, and drilled in
an inch or two, but seemed to change his mind; the work stopped, and I
concluded the bird had wisely abandoned the tree. Passing there one
cold, rainy November day, I thrust in my two fingers and was surprised
to feel something soft and warm: as I drew away my hand the bird came
out, apparently no more surprised than I was. It had decided, then, to
make its home in the old limb; a decision it had occasion to regret, for
not long after, on a stormy night, the branch gave way and fell to the
ground:--

"When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby and cradle and all."

Another trait our woodpeckers have that endears them to me is their
habit of drumming in the spring. They are songless birds, and yet all
are musicians; they make the dry limbs eloquent of the coming change.
Did you think that loud, sonorous hammering which proceeded from the
orchard or from the near woods on that still March or April morning was
only some bird getting its breakfast? It is Downy, but he is not rapping
at the door of a grub; he is rapping at the door of spring, and the dry
limb thrills beneath the ardor of his blows.

A few seasons ago, a downy woodpecker, probably the individual one who
is now my winter neighbor, began to drum earl