WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 21 
then had eaten out the kernels when hunger drove 
them to it. That would be in perfect keeping with 
the habits of these thrifty little providers for the 
morrow. 
During the winter of 1892-1893 a red-bellied 
woodpecker, often called the zebra-bird, took up 
his residence in my woodland. (I call it mine by 
a sort of usufruct, because I ramble through its 
pleasant archways or sit in its quiet boudoirs at all 
hours and in all seasons.) With the exception of 
several brief absences, for which I could not account, 
the woodpecker remained until the following spring, 
giving me some delightful surprises. It was the 
first winter he had shown the good grace to keep 
me company. Perhaps he was lazy; or he may 
have been a clumsy flier; or perchance he got 
separated from his fellows by accident, and so was 
left behind in the autumn when the southward pil- 
grimage began. 
He was, by all odds, the handsomest woodpecker 
I had ever seen. His entire crown and hind-neck 
were brilliant crimson, which fairly shimmered like 
a flambeau when the sun peeped through a rift in 
the clouds and shone upon it; and then his back 
was beautifully mottled and striped with black and 
white, while his tail was bordered with a broad band 
of deep black. What a splendid ‘picture he made, 
too, whenever he spread his wings and bolted from 
one tree to another! I wish an artist could have 
caught him on the wing, and transferred him to 
canvas. He performed a trick that was new to 
