Photographing Flickers 27 



sion that seemed to say, " That's the funniest tree I ever 

 tapped." Then he flipped across the street and started 

 a tattoo on a window-sill, but some one pushed up the 

 window to see who was trying to get in and almost scared 

 the youngster witless. The last I saw of him he was tak- 

 ing a bee-line straight across the block for the hills. 



With a tinge of regret I have watched the clumps of 

 fir thinned year after year. High-hole does not care a 

 snap. He can bore a hole in a church steeple as easily as 

 in a fir snag. The moral influence on his family is about 

 the same in one place as the other. For two seasons I 

 watched a red-shafted flicker rear his family in the tall 

 steeple of a Presbyterian Church in the heart of the city. 

 I was always a little afraid lest the strait-laced divine 

 discover the brood of squabbling youngsters sheltered 

 under the sacred roof, seize a scourge, and drive them 

 from the temple. They worked as hard on the Sabbath 

 as any other day of the week. Another flicker dug a 

 home in one of the maples that bordered the walk about a 

 large grammar-school. The poor hen was harassed half 

 to death by attention from the boys, but she reared four 

 lusty shouters. 



I have known high-hole for years. For two seasons 

 we have photographed him and his family. He has punc- 

 tured every old stump about the pond with doors and 

 windows. Every one of these old boles is dead to the 

 root, yet I generally find them throbbing at the heart more 

 vitally than the greenest neighbor in the clump. Red- 

 hammer is not altogether idle during the months of rain 

 and snow. When he does work, he goes like an automatic 

 toy wound to the limit. As soon as the weather brightens 



