A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS 
MR. FLICKER WRITES A LETTER 
People : 
Tell me where you scare up 
Names for me like “ Flicker,” “ Yarup,” 
“ High-hole,” “ Yucker,” “ Yellow-hammer ’ 
None of these are in my grammar — 
“ Piquebois jaune” (Woodpick yellow), 
So the Creoles name a fellow. 
Others call me “ Golden-wings,” 
“ Clape,” and twenty other things 
That I never half remember, 
Any summer till September. 
Many names and frequent mention 
Show that I receive attention, 
And the honor that is due me ; 
But if you would interview me 
Call me any name you please, 
I’m “ at home ” among the trees. 
Yet I never cease my labors 
To receive my nearest neighbors, 
And ’twill be your best enjoyment 
Just to view me at employment. 
I’m the friend of every sower, 
Useful to the orchard grower. 
Helping many a plant and tree 
From its enemies to free — 
They are always food for me. 
And I like dessert in reason, 
Just a bit of fruit in season, 
But my delicacy is ants, 
Stump or hill inhabitants; 
Thrusting in my sticky tongue, 
So I take them, old and young. 
Surely we have found the best 
Place wherein to make our nest — 
Tunnel bored within a tree, 
Smooth and clean as it can be, 
Smallest at the open door, 
Curving wider toward the floor. 
Every year we make a new one, 
Freshly bore another true one; 
Other birds, you understand, 
Use our old ones, second-hand — 
Occupying free of rent, 
They are very well content. 
