ago. Dogs bark ; an anvil rings ; wagons rattle 

 by ; and children shout about the cross-roads. 

 But these sounds have become the natural 

 voices of the neighborhood— mother-tongues 

 like the chat of the brook, the talk of the 

 leaves, and the caw of the crows. And these 

 voices, instead of disturbing, seem rather to lull 

 the stillness. 



But the noise of the cars has hardly died 

 away, and the quiet come, when a long, wild cry 

 breaks in upon it. Yarwp ! yarup ! yarup-up-up- 

 up-up ! in quick succession sounds the call, fol- 

 lowed instantly by a rapid, rolling beat that 

 rings through the morning hush like a reveille 

 with bugle and drum. 



It is the cry of the "flicker," the " high-hole." 

 He is propped against a pole along the street 

 railroad, nearly a quarter of a mile away. He 

 has a hole in this pole, almost under the iron 

 arm that holds the polished, pulsing wire for the 

 trolley. It is a new house, which the bird has 

 been working at for more than a week, and it 

 must be finished now, for this lusty call is an 

 invitation to the warming. I shall go, and, 

 between the passing of the cars, witness the 

 [114] 



