THE BIRD ’OF MANY NAMES 
Piercing out as trumpet shrill 
The flicker’s challenge breaks 
From out the oaks which crown a hill 
That overlooks the lakes ; 
A long-drawn chattering cry elate, 
And then from his expectant mate 
A faint-heard answering cry replies 
From some far wooded rise. 
McGar Fey. 
OWING along the shore very early 
one morning, we passed a meadow 
fringed with heavy timber. The broken 
trunk of a solitary giant sycamore stood 
near the water’s edge, leafless, almost branch- 
less, its size alone telling its age and former 
glory. As we came in sight of it, a meadow 
lark sat on top piping merrily, and not two 
feet below him, on the side next the lake, a 
flicker busily excavated his dwelling. He 
had dug out about ten inches, and only his 
tail could be seen in the hole, bobbing vigor- 
ously as the chips flew. Through the field- 
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