OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
55 
timber till it used its strength up. The one I 
refer to would cut through a dry hemlock 
board in a very short time, making the slivers 
fly. The sound was like that of a carpenter’s 
hammer. It may have been that he was an 
unmated bird, a bachelor whose suit had not® 
prospered that season and who was giving 
vent to his outraged instincts in drilling these 
mock nesting places.” 
You may recite in concert, Clinton Scol- 
lard’s poem: 
THE WOODPECKER. 
When on the southern slopes 
The drifts grow thin, 
And buds like lover’s hopes 
To swell begin, 
This truant comes 
And drums 
The springtime in. 
He marshals out the May 
For June to reign, 
Villing the blithe blue day 
With sharp refrain, 
For lo! he knows 
The rose 
Is queen again. 
c 
