150 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



the moss crept up and so surrounded it that even 

 standing above it anyone would have mistaken it 

 for a natural flower. I brought our wonderful rose 

 home where I keep it among my mementoes of field 

 work, because I especially enjoy a good joke on 

 myself. 



Last season my husband came to me and said he 

 wanted my interpretation of a piece of natural his- 

 tory that was worrying him. Between the parks 

 in which he kept his crested Polish and white 

 Plymouth Rock chickens, he had found the gate- 

 pin hole completely corked with tiny bits of wood. 

 I went with him and watched him take his penknife 

 and remove the little pieces. Behind them we 

 found the hole packed full of beechnuts, so I told 

 him to watch for a few days and see what bird he 

 found there. Before the day was over he came to 

 tell me that a downy woodpecker was busy refilling 

 the hole with more bits of wood, which it was col- 

 lecting for the purpose. 



I might add among peculiar experiences afield 

 the history of a picture I made in a lake only a 

 short distance from Silver Lake, Indiana. The 

 shores of this lake, I was told by natives, were 

 badly infested with a snake I have not yet been 

 able to identify, which they called "red-bellies," 

 and persistently asserted their bite meant instant 

 death; so I was constantly warned by my guide to 

 watch out for snakes and to be very careful. With 

 my paraphernalia in a boa I, the guide rowing 



