HAIRY WOODPECKER. 93 
flowering marsh and laughing meadow, clings 
close to the side of a stub, as if the very sun him- 
self moved around a tree trunk! 
But who knows how much these grave mono- 
maniacs have discovered that lies a sealed book 
to all the world besides? Why should we scorn 
them ? They are philosophers! They have the se- 
cret of happiness. Any bird could be joyous with 
plenty of blue sky and sunshine, and the poets, 
from Chaucer to Wordsworth, have relaxed their 
brows at the sight of a daisy; but what does the 
happy goldfinch know of the wonders of tree 
trunks, and what poet could find inspiration in a 
dead stub on a bleak November day ? Jack Frost 
sends both thrush and goldfinch flying south, and 
