One Family of Flickers 



By ANNA ROGERS ROBERTS, Marietta. Ohio 



INSISTENTLY he screeched as he sat on the lower hmb of the white lilac. 

 Over him towered the giant elm which had been the home of his kin for 

 more than a generation. Its broken skyline had once been continuous; 

 its diminishing shade had few other causes than the activities of this same proud 

 and beautiful bird. Deep holes, dug first into one branch and then another, had 

 caused limbs to decay as they filled with water, swelled with freezing, loosed 

 with cyclonic winds, until a still day saw havoc, and a quiet night witnessed 

 destruction. 



But little cared he, this bird with the powerful bill, red crown, black cres- 

 cent, flecked breast, yellow wings, spotted back, and bristling tail. He had just 

 finished a long journey and he wanted to clean — then eat. But that cleaning! 

 Did you ever watch a Flicker dress? No dandy takes more pains. Every feather 

 is made to shimmer as gold of sunset through lace-leafed trees. He feels no 

 hurry; he loves detail, and in his businesslike manner you detect a purpose. 

 It took him an hour, and then came — at least it seemed to me — an act of 

 human intelligence. 



Trees were leafless, though sap was mounting. He flew to the topmost limb 

 of a large walnut, and I know of no other way to express his attitude than to say, 

 he studied the situation. This way and that he looked. For one of less courage, 

 the prospect was cheerless. Bare tress and bleak earth. But that fierce eye 

 looks and looks, that powerful head turns in every direction. Finally his 

 decision is reached. Straight to the tower he flies, and the roll of his tattoo on 

 the tin spouting rivals the snorting engines two squares away. Who can com- 

 pute the number of motions the long bill makes as the strident noise con- 

 tinues? He is terribly in earnest, he must make her hear ! An old lamp-post 

 with a metal shade is attacked next. Its rattle suits, for there he stays two 

 days, hammering and screaming, almost incessantly. You wonder when he 

 eats. Then, — over the hill, Harmar Hill, — a yellow blur I No — two — and he 

 has company. Royall\- he greets them; they are his own, though strangers 

 an instant gone. Their yickcr, yickcr, yicker is the sweet prelude of their joy- 

 ous homing season. Best of friends, they feed at a common table, such as it 

 is — the damp smoothness of the faintly green-tinged flats. For several days 

 they play, hunt, anrl share their findings with each other. 



Tluii ihr lime approaches for the trials of skill for the possession of the 

 beautiful lady. I'irst, the trial by flight. From bush to tree, from flat to height, 

 from ground to tower they fly, scarcely lighting. One day — two days — even 

 into the third day, the winged battle continues. Neither rests while she watches. 

 The high, magnificent sweep of the first day becomes lower and heavier on the 

 second, and xou are reliexed when darkness falls anrl the tired wings fold for 

 the night. The ihiid dax, ihr unfrrliii,' lad\- lalis a halt, and new tests are 



(.547' 



