A Pocket Sanctuary 



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Those two big trees were great favorites with the Red-shafted Fhckers. 

 Their beautifully engraved trunks were pitted all over with holes that showed 

 where borers had vainly tried to hide their wicked heads. Often, in the sum- 

 mer, I felt the fanning of the wide-spread wings as a Flicker family dashed by. 

 Often, in the winter, the lire-red wings against the snow were at once a chal- 

 lenge and a promise. One winter day I stood between the twin pines, beside 

 the frozen brook. There was a rush of flame; then, like a torch blown out by 

 the wind, a Flicker landed at the base of the nearer tree and began to circle it 

 in ascending spirals. Only two small sparks glowed among his dull feathers, to 

 show the flame was still burning. Over the bridge, singing in notes that chimed 

 like tiny silver bells, fluttered a flock of Chickadees. They swooped down 

 upon the box-elder tree and the slender, bare branches swayed with their 

 activities as if a light wind were blowing. Nothing else moved in the frozen 

 ravine except the Flicker on the pine tree trunk. A soft, cold touch brushed 

 my face, and in a moment there seemed nothing else in the world but motion, 

 as the Christmas snowstorm came whirling from the clouds. I huddled up 

 against the big pine, but after awhile, because the Flicker and the Chickadees 

 had gone away, it was too lonesome down there. As I started to climb out of 

 the ravine I counted up on my fingers: 



"The rest of December doesn't matter, because it's Christmas; so there's 

 January, February— that's a short month anyhow— then March! And the 

 buttercups, and Robins, and maybe — maybe — the first Meadowlarks." 



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