AMONG THE HILLS. 45 



throw himself on his back hke a feathered maniac. 

 No ; as a pet he is a failure, and is better at large, 

 — a bird without fear, and with a large appetite. 



Hark ! that is the yaffle's laugh. The green 

 woodpecker is called a yaffle by the woodlanders 

 here. Another answers him ; if we are cautious 

 we may get a sight of them. There he is ; louder 

 and nearer comes his tap-tap-tap. Drawing close 

 to a large tree-trunk, I peer out. The woods begin 

 to ring with their cries. They are on that old 

 decayed beech which is almost ready to fall with 

 age, the yaffle and his mate. What a picture of 

 bird-life! with his crimson and yellow- green back 

 against the old grey trunk. They are at play again, 

 and they cry as they chase each other over, under, 

 and round about the trunk and limbs, while with 

 their claws they make as much rattle as a couple 

 of cats on the climb would. The pretty sight is 

 soon put an end to. " Ike, ike ! " a cry of alarm 

 to her mate, and the female bird dives into a hole 

 in the tree. The male scuttles round with a yell, 

 for a grey bird shoots with a flash from some tree 

 near, where he has been on the watch. It is a male 

 sparrow-hawk. The yaffle knows his life is in 



