THE BUGABOO OF THE WOODS. 135 



laying of the foundations. We made our visit. 

 Yesterday there were two pearls of promise 

 within; to-day, alas! nothing. 



Squirrels, we said; for those beasts were the 

 bugaboo of the woods to its feathered inhabi- 

 tants. Hardly a nest was so high, so well hid- 

 den, or so closely watched, but some unlucky 

 day a little fellow — sportsman, would you call 

 him? — in gray or red fur, would find his 

 chance, and make his breakfast on next year's 

 song birds. 



Musing on this and other tragedies among our 

 friends, we silently turned to the next neighbor. 

 At this door we could knock, and we always did. 

 (We desired to be civil when circumstances per- 

 mitted.) A rap or two on the dead trunk 

 brought hastily to the door, twenty -five feet high, 

 a small head, with a bright red cap and necktie, 

 and eager, questioning eyes. Observing that he 

 had guests, he came out, showing his black and 

 white coat. But one glance was usually enough ; 

 he declined to entertain us, and instantly took 

 his leave. We knew him well, however — the 

 yellow-bellied woodpecker, or "sapsucker," as 

 he was called in the vicinity. This morning we 

 did not need to knock, for one of the family was 

 already outside, — a young woodpecker, clinging 

 to the bark, and dressing his nest-ruffled plum- 

 age for the grand performance, his first flight. 



