218 The Downy Woodpecker 



He is the natural watchman of our fruit-trees. He hunts out the 

 moth's eggs laid in the crack of the bark and eats them, thus pre- 

 venting a brood of caterpillars from hatching and eating the leaves 

 of the tree. He finds the eggs of beetles and eats them, also, before 

 they can hatch out into the wood-boring larvae that sometimes girdle 

 and kill the limbs. Thus Downy labors on, day by 

 Dlstroyed da ^' throu g n the year, destroying millions of harmful 

 insects that if unmolested would do a vast injury 

 to the groves and orchards. For all this service he never eats any of 

 the fruit of the trees he guards, but, when in need of a little vegetable 

 diet, goes to the berries of the dogwood, or woodbine, or pokeberry. 

 Occasionally he eats a few weed-seeds just for variety. Downy is 

 sometimes called "Sapsucker," and is accused of pecking holes in the 

 bark of trees for the purpose of getting sap. But he is not the guilty 

 one the bird that does this is another kind of woodpecker. The small 

 holes that our little friend makes in trees do not even reach the inner 

 bark, except when he is bent on securing some harmful intruder. 



Like most of our woodpeckers Downy is a resident throughout the 

 year wherever found, and seems to enjoy all seasons equally. Early 

 in December one dug out with his bill a cavity for his winter bedroom 

 in the dead limb of the tree standing near the house. So nice and 

 cozy a retreat from the wind was it that frequently, early in the evening, 

 he would leave his friends, Chickadee and Titmouse, with whom he 

 had romped all day, and, hurrying off, tumble into bed to dream away 

 the long winter night. On cold and rainy mornings he would some- 

 times lie late abed, probably knowing that in doing so he stood no 

 danger of losing the early worm. I found him still there about nine 

 o'clock one drizzling morning; to be sure, he was up and about, but he 

 had not yet left home. He was clinging just inside the hollow of the 

 limb, and I could distinctly see his bill and bright inquisitive eyes as 

 he sat looking out over the drenched and dreary world. 



When you find Downy in your orchard on a bright, cold morning 

 in January, he has the same busy, contented air which you must have 

 noticed when first making his acquaintance, perhaps on some warm 

 spring day. He appears so happy and buoyant at all times, however, 

 that one wonders whether he has not hidden away 

 under his little white waistcoat a perpetual fountain 

 of the ecstasy of springtime and youth. 

 He likes cheerful company, especially in the winter, when most of 

 the forest-voices are silent and the cold winds are howling around the 

 trunks of the sleeping forest-trees. 



He then hunts up his friends, the little gray Tufted Titmouse and 

 the light-hearted Chickadee. Together they spend much time in bands, 

 patrolling the woodland, and searching out from their hiding-places the 

 eggs of insects stowed away under the bark to wait for the warm spring 

 sun to hatch them. A dozen or more birds are thus often found to- 

 gether. 



