176 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



THE DAUGHTERLESS FLICKERS. 



Eugenia Chapman Gillette. 



I wonder if all the Flicker babies of last season were boys! Of all 

 the families that came under my observation, not one could boast a girl 

 baby. Does that indicate a war in peckerdom? 



I was watching three families closely and caugiit casual glimpses of 

 a good many others. These three families consisted of four, five and 

 six children respectively, — with the regulation two parents per nest. 

 And of these twenty-one birds, the three mothers were the only ones 

 without the black mustachios. And all the Flicker school children I 

 met by the way were boys. 



The family that was blessed with six sons lived in a tall oak tree by 

 the lake. Had they but opened their door in the right direction, they 

 would have commanded a magnificient view of the rarest gem of a lake. 

 But that door, round as Giotta's O, opened diametrically opposite to 

 the point where it should, the whole bole of the tree intervening, and 

 affording shelter from the wind and driving rains from the lake, as 

 effectually as it shut off the view. 



These six sons had a dinner horn apiece, and their clamor was appall- 

 ing when their frequent luncheon hour arrived. 



The serving process was agonizing to look upon, as Flicker parents 

 feed their young by regurgitation. It certainly looked like strangulation 

 and murderation, and one found it hard to understand how the children 

 could clamor for their turms, instead of striving to escape the awful or- 

 deal. 



The family of five sons dwelt in an old willow tree on the bank of the 

 mill race, where the baby faces were reflected in the still waters when 

 the baby heads were thrust forth to greet the parental return. 



The family of the male quartet was reared in Library Park, though I 

 did not discover them until they had left the nest. 



The sons could not well be instantly distinguished from their sire, 

 though the black French knots on their white vests were not quite so 

 large and richly black, and their collars were a little lighter, more yel- 

 lowish red. But after a few moments watching, the children invariably 

 did something unmistakably childish, that left no question. 



One day the faucet, in which the lawn hose was attached at sprinkling 

 time, was left dripping, and Flicker pater, tired and thirsty from much 

 foraging for apples and ants, decided upon a drink of city water. He 

 flew up, clung to the projecting boards of the veranda floor, and opened 

 his mouth, letting the water drops fall in. 



