LITTLE PRISONERS IN THE TOWER. 67 



bed of the dry stream, between high hedges of 

 exquisite lemon-colored mustard. Patient wait- 

 ing is no loss, observers must remember if they 

 would be consoled for their lost hours. In this 

 case I waited till I felt like a lotus-eater who 

 could have stayed on forever. A dove brooded 

 her eggs on a branch of the spreading sycamore 

 whose arms were outstretched protectingly above 

 me ; the sun rested full on its broad leaves, and 

 bees droned around the fragrant mustard, whose 

 exquisite golden flowers waved gently against a 

 background of soft blue California sky. 



But that was not the last day I had to wait. 

 It was over a month before the birds put any trust 

 in me. The nest hole was excavated before the 

 middle of May ; on June 15 I wrote in my note- 

 book, " The woodpecker has gotten so that when 

 I go by she puts her head out of the window, and 

 when I speak to her does not fly away, but cocks 

 her head and looks down at me." 1 That same 

 morning the bird actually entered the nest in my 

 presence. She came back to her sycamore while 

 I was watching the wrens, and flew right up to the 

 mouth of the nest. She was a little nervous. She 

 poked in her bill, drew it back ; put in her head, 

 drew that back ; then swung her body partly in ; 

 but finally the tip of her tail disappeared down 

 the hole. 



1 The difference in the dress of the woodpeckers is so slight 

 that the sexes were not distinguished at this nest. 



