76 WINTER NEIGHBORS. ~ 
fice was about fifteen feet from the ground, and ap: 
peared as round as if struck with a compass. It was 
on the east side of the tree, so as to avoid the prevail- 
ing west and northwest winds. As it was nearly two 
inches in diameter, it could not have been the work of 
the downy, but must have been that of the hairy, or 
else the yellow-bellied woodpecker. His home had 
probably been wrecked by some violent wind, and he 
was thus providing himself another. In digging out 
these retreats the woodpeckers prefer a dry, brittle 
trunk, not too soft. They go in horizontally to the 
centre and then turn downward, enlarging the tunnel 
as they go, till when finished it is the shape of a long, 
deep pear. 
Another trait our woodpeckers have that endears 
them to me, and that has never been pointedly noticed 
by our ornithologists, is their habit of drumming in 
the spring. They are songless birds, and yet all are 
musicians ; they make the dry limbs eloquent of the 
coming change. Did you think that loud, sonorous 
hammering which proceeded from the orchard or from 
the near woods on that still March or April morning 
was only some bird getting its breakfast? It is downy, 
but he is not rapping at the door of a grub; he is rap- 
ping at the door of spring, and the dry limb thrills 
beneath the ardor of his blows. Or, later in the sea- 
son, in the dense forest or by some remote mountain 
lake, does that measured rhythmic beat that breaks 
upon the silence, first three strokes following each 
other rapidly, succeeded by two louder ones with longer 
intervals between them, and that has an effect upon 
the alert ear as if the solitude itself had at last found a 
voice — does that suggest anything less than a delib- 
erate musical performance? In fact, our woodpeckers 
PW Arata 
