36 IN BIRD LAND, 
ground on the dry leaves, where he at last succeeded 
in capturing his prize. He gulped it down with a 
sly wink, as much as to say: “‘ Was n’t that a clever 
trick, sir? Beat at -1f you can!” -Ehen he picked 
up a seed and flew with it to a twig in a dogwood 
sapling, where he placed it under his claws, holding 
it firmly as he nibbled it with his stout little beak. 
His meal finished, he suddenly pretended to be 
greatly alarmed at something, called loudly, Chick, 
chick-a-da ! chick-a-da-da / and darted away like 
an Indian’s arrow. 
On the same day a golden-crowned kinglet — my 
Lilliputian of the woods —surprised me by drop- 
ping from a twig above me to the ground, right at 
my feet, passing within two or three inches of my 
face. Quick as a flash he leaped to a sapling before 
me, and I saw that he held a worm in his tiny bill. 
Of course, that was the prize for which he had 
dashed in such a headlong way to the ground. 
Few birds have charmed me more than the jolly 
red-headed woodpecker, and many a quaint antic 
has he performed with all the nonchalance of a sage 
ora stoic. He has a queer way of taking his meals. 
The first time it came to my notice I was walking 
home, on a hot summer day, along a railway, when 
a red-head bounded across the track before me, 
holding a ripe, blood-red cherry in his beak. He 
made a handsome picture with his pure white and 
velvety black coat and vest, his crimson cap and 
collar, and his—here my tropes fail, and I am 
forced to become literal — long, black beak, tipped 
