17^ AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



see the farmer tilling the soil and hear his voice commanding his team 

 in the furrows; he can look down on little glassy lakes and little creeks 

 whose surface look like strings of polished silver — he hears the lowing 

 of the herds, and the tinkling of their bells in the early morn; he can 

 have the richest cherries that grow in the orchard and devour the most 

 noxious insects in those trees, covered in early spring with white blos- 

 soms, to pay for the little he gets from them. 



The caw of the crow, the hysterical cry of the blue jay, and the 

 shriek of the Butcher-bird brings no alarm to him for they cannot break 

 into his mansion of oak and rob him of his young like those birds do 

 in the homes of other birds which have no roofs, to protect them from 

 the storms and enemies. Birds that rear their young in open nests, on 

 branches are most terribly excited when their young begin to fly or to 

 try to fly. This is always the case for, something more than instinct 

 tells them that some animal below is liable to get them. 



At this time when the birds are solicitous for the welfarie of their 

 young it looks as if there is more than mere instinct in their little 

 breasts, if not reason? Where trouble exists fear always reigns. Of 

 course the Redhead has his faults like any of the human family, but I 

 do not propose to open the closet doors and show the skeleton. I 

 •could tell of many bad traits and characteristics, which he naturally in- 

 herits, but what is the use? With all his faults he needs no recommen- 

 dation. Were I a bird I should prefer to be a Redhead, when his little 

 tots are ready to fly, and even when they are not, they can scamper out 

 like mice on the trunk of the tree in which they were born, and earn 

 their own living by digging out little insects which lurk in the bark; all 

 the day long they can keep themselves busy, and when the golden rays 

 of the setting sun tells them that darkness is coming on they can creep 

 up to their little sky-scraper and rest until another morn assures them 

 that their two tiny wings are more fully grown and that they will soon 

 be ready to fly with their parents in the deepest forests where Nature's 

 song has a chord of everlasting music. 



Were I a Redhead, I would follow to a letter his tactics in the way of 

 self preservation during the winter months, so far as food is concerned. 

 A coal famine would not alarm me; the only fear perhaps that would 

 enter my mind is that the woodsman might chop down my dwelling for 

 fuel for humanity living below. 



Another reason why I admire the Redhead is that he seems to have 

 an extraordinary amount of foresight — in looking out for a rainy day 

 by storing grasshoppers, acorns and beech nuts in the cracks and crev- 

 ices of the posts, in the cavities of partially decayed trees and under 

 patches of raised bark. 



