an empty hay-loft. Perhaps an English sparrow 

 would not have been daunted at the prospect of 

 filling up a haymow with a nest, but the flicker 

 was. 



Or else she was not house -hunting, as I first 

 thought, but simply a demented flicker, crazy 

 over holes. For now her madness showed itself. 

 Out she came, hopped sidewise across a few 

 boards, tapped, listened, and began a new hole. 

 This, of course, opened into the same mammoth 

 cave. What of it? Not where the hole opened, 

 but the boring of it ; that was the thing. So, 

 hopping along to another seam, she went through 

 again. 



And not three times only. Day after day 

 either she or the other flickers in the neighbor- 

 hood kept boring away, until soon the barn be- 

 came riddled with holes as if it had received a 

 severe cannonading. 



It was all very interesting for the naturalist. 

 The farmer, however, who had not built the barn 

 for the amusement of insane birds, saw no good 

 in the holes at all. 



Of like mind with the farmer were the owners 

 of some flne houses in a town not far from me. 

 [182] 



