758 
Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 
cient glacier, just as I was approaching 
the small active glacier that leans back 
in the shadow of Merced Mountain, a 
flock of twenty or thirty of these little 
birds, the first I had seen, came down 
the canon to meet me, flying low, straight 
toward me as if they meant to fly in my 
face. Instead of attacking me or pass¬ 
ing by, they circled round my head, 
chirping and fluttering for a minute or 
two, then turned and escorted me up the 
canon, alighting on the nearest rocks on 
either hand, and flying ahead a few 
yards at a time to keep even with me. 
I have not discovered their winter 
quarters. Probably they are in the de¬ 
sert ranges to the eastward, for I never 
saw any of them in Yosemite, the win¬ 
ter refuge of so many of the mountain 
birds. 
Hummingbirds are among the best and 
most conspicuous of the mountaineers, 
flashing their ruby throats in countless 
wild gardens far up the higher slopes, 
where they would be least expected. All 
one has to do to enjoy the company of 
these mountain-loving midgets is to dis¬ 
play a showy blanket or handkerchief. 
The arctic bluebird is another delight¬ 
ful mountaineer, singing a wild, cheery 
song and “ carrying the sky on his back ” 
over all the gray ridges and domes of 
the subalpine region. 
A fine, hearty, good-natured lot of 
woodpeckers dwell in the park, and keep 
it lively all the year round. Among 
the most notable of these are the mag¬ 
nificent log cock (Ceophloeus pileatus), 
the prince of Sierra woodpeckers, and 
only second in rank, as far as I know, of 
all the woodpeckers of the world ; the 
Lewis woodpecker, large, black, glossy, 
that flaps and flies like a crow, does but 
little hammering, and feeds in great part 
on wild cherries and berries ; and the 
carpenter, who stores up great quantities 
of acorns in the bark of trees for winter 
use. The last named species is a beau¬ 
tiful bird, charmingly familiar and far 
more common than the others. In the 
woods of the West lie represents the 
eastern red-head. Bright, cheerful, in¬ 
dustrious, not in the least shy, the car¬ 
penters give delightful animation to the 
open Sierra forests at a height of from 
three thousand to fifty-five hundred feet, 
especially in autumn when the acorns are 
ripe. Then no squirrel works harder at 
his pine-nut harvest than these wood¬ 
peckers at their acorn harvest, drilling 
holes in the thick, corky bark of the yel¬ 
low pine and incense cedar, in which to 
store the crop for winter use ; a hole for 
each acorn, so nicely adjusted as to size 
that when the acorn, point foremost, is 
driven in, it fits so well that it cannot be 
drawn out without digging around it. 
Each acorn is thus carefully stored in 
a dry bin, perfectly protected from the 
weather, — a most laborious method of 
stowing away a crop, a granary for each 
kernel. Yet the birds seem never to 
weary at the work, but go on so dili¬ 
gently that they seem determined to save 
every acorn in the grove. They are never 
seen eating acorns at the time they are 
storing them, and it is commonly be¬ 
lieved that they never eat them or intend 
to eat them, but that the wise birds store 
them and protect them from the depreda¬ 
tions of squirrels and jays, solely for the 
sake of the worms they are supposed to 
contain. And because these worms are 
too small for use at the time the acorns 
drop, they are shut up like lean calves 
and steers, each in a separate stall with 
abundance of food, to grow big and fat 
by the time they will be most wanted, 
that is, in winter, when insects are scarce 
and stall-fed worms most valuable. So 
these woodpeckers are supposed to be a 
sort of cattle-raisers, each with a drove 
of thousands, rivaling the ants that raise 
grain and keep herds of plant lice for 
milk cows. Needless to say the story is 
not true, though some naturalists even 
believe it. When Emerson was in the 
park, having heard the worm story and 
seen the great pines plugged full of 
acorns, he asked (just to pump me. 
