30 American Birds 



curiosity once led me to pry into a hornet's nest in a hol- 

 low log. I've been a little skittish since. I am not sure 

 of Nature's reason for providing woodpeckers with such 

 a peculiar baby prattle, but I know the sound has scared 

 more than one boy into shying away from a flicker's home. 



In the heart of the fir the growth was rapid. The 

 thin drawn lids of each callow prisoner cracked and re- 

 vealed a pair of black eyes. Feathers sprouted and spread 

 from the rolls of fatty tissue up and down their backs. 

 Each bill pointed ever upward to the light; the instant 

 the doorway darkened, each sprung open to its limit. The 

 nestlings soon took to climbing the walls, not solely for 

 amusement. The sharp ears of each youngster caught 

 the scrape of the mother's claws the instant she clutched 

 the bark of the tree, and this sound always gave rise to 

 a neck-stretching scramble toward the door. The young 

 woodpeckers had little chance of exercising their wings. 

 The next time we climbed the tree with the camera they 

 were apparently full grown, strong in climbing, but, to our 

 advantage, weak in flying. 



We are not likely to forget the day we climbed the 

 stump to picture the young flickers. The full meaning of 

 the task had not struck us. Nor had the enjoyment of 

 it dawned upon the fledglings. They were bashful at first, 

 but after a little coaxing and fondling they were as tame 

 as pet pussies. They climbed out and crowded the stump- 

 top, where they sat in the warm sunshine stretching, fluff- 

 ing, bowing, and preening. 



They liked to cling to our clothing. A coat sleeve 

 was easier climbing than a tree trunk, and it was softer to 

 penetrate with a peck. There was a streak of ambition 



