KNIGHTS OF THE CHISEL 



"I'm sure I can find Flickers* nests," he responded, 

 but maybe they'll all be up in rotten stubs a mile high. 

 *'But I'll see what I can do." 



So we both were rivals as to who would do the best. 

 I found the first, because I was out the most, while 

 poor Ned was shut up in school studying Latin, which 

 he doesn't enjoy overmuch, yet finds it useful in learn- 

 ing the scientific names of the birds. I tell him that 

 if he doesn't get his Latin lessons those big long bird 

 names will stick in his throat. It needs considerable 

 vocal lubrication from classical study to call a Red- 

 headed Woodpecker a Melanerpes erythrocephalus, but 

 it can be done, for Ned has accomplished it. But we 

 will let him escape from school this fourteenth of May 

 and drive five miles to see a few hawks' nests — Broad- 

 winged, Cooper's, and Red-tailed, all within less than 

 a mile, and incidentally my Flicker's hole. The bird 

 was still digging it out, and as we approached we could 

 see some long thing sticking out and jerking up and 

 down like a pump handle. It was the Flicker's tail! 

 She had chiseled into the chestnut stub with her power- 

 ful bill deep enough to hide all of her but her tail. 

 And she was working hard, too, but she did not keep 

 it up long enough to violate the rules of the labor 

 union— "the I. O. K. C"— Ned and I call it, or the 

 "Independent Order of the Knights of the Chisel." 

 They do not allow even an eight-hour day on a house 

 contract, but on the other hand compel a frightfully 

 long service in chiseling for the festive grub. This 



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