224 FEOM MY WINDOW. 



pecker waited, with low "k-r-r-r-r" and many 

 bows to the universe in general, to see if the 

 way were clear for him to go to the fence. No- 

 thing is so good to bring birds into sight as an 

 old fence or a dead tree. On the single leafless 

 branch at the top of an old apple-tree the stu- 

 dent will generally see, at one time or another, 

 every bird in an orchard. 



This dead tree of the locust group was the 

 regular perch of "the loneliest of its kind," the 

 phoabe, whose big chuckle-head and high shoul- 

 ders gave him the look of an old man, bent with 

 age. His outline one could never mistake, even 

 though he were but a silhouette against the sky. 

 One of these birds could nearly always be seen 

 on the lowest branch pursuing his business of 

 flycatcher, and I learned more of the singularly 

 reserved creature than I ever knew before. I 

 found, contrary to my expectation, that he had 

 a great deal to say for himself, aside from the 

 professional performance at the peak of the barn 

 roof which gives him his name. 



" Phoebe is all it has to say 

 In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er," 



sings the poet, but he had not so close acquaint- 

 ance with him as I enjoyed behind my blind. 

 There were two mud cottages in the neighbor- 

 hood, and two pairs of birds to occupy them, and 



