place, and nothing more. But there is not so 

 much as a slab in the fields and woods. When 

 the telegraph-poles and the piles are cut, the 

 stumps are immediately prepared for new life, 

 and soon begin blossoming into successive beds 

 of mosses and mushrooms, while the birds are 

 directed to follow the bare poles and make them 

 live again. 



A double line of these pole-specters stretches 

 along the road in front of my door, holding hands 

 around the world. I have grown accustomed to 

 the hum of the wires, and no longer notice the 

 sound. But one May morning recently there 

 was a new note in the pole just outside the yard. 

 I laid my ear to the wood. Pick pick pick; 

 then all was still. Again, after a moment's pause, 

 I heard pick pick pick on the inside. At my 

 feet was a scattering of tiny yellow chips. Back- 

 ing off a little, I discovered the hole, about the 

 size of my fist, away up near the cross-bars. It 

 was not the first time I had found High-hole 

 laying claim to the property of the telegraph 

 companies. I stole back and thumped. Instantly 

 a dangerous bill and a flashing eye appeared, and 

 High- hole, with his miner's lamp burning red 

 [271] 



