or later, every dead tree in the neighborhood 

 finds a place in my note-book. They are all 

 named and mentioned, some over and over, my 

 list of Immortals, all very dead or very hollow, 

 ranging from a big sweet-gum in the swamp 

 along the creek to an old pump-tree, stuck for a 

 post within fifty feet of my window. The gum 

 is the hollowest, the pump the deadest, tree of 

 the lot. 



The nozle-hole of the one-time pump stares 

 hard at my study window like the empty socket 

 of a Cyclops. There is a small bird-house nailed 

 just above the window, which gazes back with its 

 single eye at the staring pump. For some time 

 one April the sputtering sparrows held this box 

 above the window against the attacks of two tree- 

 swallows. The sparrows had been on the ground 

 all winter, and had staked their claim with a nest 

 that had already outgrown the house when the 

 swallows arrived. In love of fair play, and re- 

 membering more than one winter day made alive 

 and cheerful by the sparrows, I could not inter- 

 fere and oust them, though it grieved me to lose 

 the pretty pair of swallows as summer neighbors. 



The swallows disappeared. All was quiet for 

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