
412 
FOREST AND STREAM: 
[SEPT. 14, 1907. 

° 
Flicker Habits. 
PorTLAND, Oregon, Aug. 1.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: One January day | was wading through 
the wet grass and low bushes near Ladd’s Pond 
when a flicker (Colaptes cafer collaris) flapped 
up almost in my face. His mate followed. I 
found several holes where they had been driving 
into the ground for food. The bug supply under 
the bark was low, or may be it was purely a 
voluntary change of diet. 
Red-hammer, of the West, like yellow-hammer, 
his Eastern cousin, 1s a rather odd mixture of 
woodpecker and robin. The Picus family in 
general takes its food from the bark of a tree, 
but a red-hammer often digs his food from the 
ground. The structure of his bill is modified 
to suit his feeding habits. The bill of the ordi- 
nary woodpecker is shaped like a chisel at the 
top, but the flicker’s bill is like a pick axe. 
Nearly half of the flicker’s diet consists of ants. 
Two flicker stomachs that were examined at 
Washington contained over six thousand ants. 
According to woodpecker taste a bird should 
cling to the side of a tree, clutching two toes 
above and two below, with body propped by his 
tail, but “high-hole”’ is independent and often 
sits on a limb as an ordinary percher. But why 
does this Westerner parade the woods in a 
jaunty suit lined with red, while his Eastern 
cousin flaunts from tree to tree in a yellow-lined 
jacket? 
High-hole is somewhat of a barbarian among 
the Romans about the pond. He knows noth- 
ing about, nor does he care for the finer arts 
of architecture and music. A dark den suits him 
as well as a mansion. He has a voice like the 
“holler” of a lusty-lunged, whole-souled plow- 
boy.. As he swings from stump to stump his 
wings flash red like a beacon light. He shouts 
“Yar-up! yar-up! yar-up!” from the tree top, or 
occasionally he breaks the woody silence with. a 
prolonged jovial “Ha! ha! ha!” 
There is always a sentiment of the farm about 
the flicker. Occasionally I see one of the birds 
here in the city, but he always reminds me of 
a backwoods boy on a visit. He never seems 
at home among the clanging of the cars and the 
rumbling of the wagons along the paved streets. 
A few days ago I saw one of the woodpeckers 
alight on the side of a brick building above the 
busy street. JI knew it was an inexperienced 
bird, for he began jabbing at the tin cornice in 
a way that seemed to me was likely to splinter 
his bill. It resounded like a drum. He cocked 
his head with a surprised expression that seemed 
to say, “That’s the funniest tree I ever tapped.” 
Then he flipped across the street and started a 
tottoo on a window sill, but some one pushed up 
the window to see who was trying to get in, and 
almost scared the youngster witless. The last 
I saw of him he was taking a bee line straight 
for the hills. 
With a tinge of regret 
clumps of fir thinned year after year. High- 
hole does not care a snap. He can bore a hole 
in a church steeple as easily as in a fir snag. 
The moral influence on his family is about the 
same in one place as the other. For two sea- 
sons I watched a red-shafted flicker rear his 
family in the tall steeple of a Presbyterian 
church in the heart of the city. I was always 
a little afraid lest the straight-laced divine dis- 
cover the brood of squabbling youngsters shel- 
tered under the sacred roof, seize a scourge and 
drive them from the temple. They worked as 
hard on the Sabbath as any other day of the 
week. Another flicker dug a home in one of 
the maples that border the walk about a large 
grammar school. The poor hen was harassed 
half to death by attention from the boys, but 
she reared four lusty shouters. 
I have known high-hole for years. For two 
seasons we have photographed him and _ his 
family. He has punctured every old stump about 
the pond with doors and windows. Every one 
of these old boles is dead to the root, yet I gen- 
erally find them throbbing at the heart more 
vitally than the greenest neighbor in the clump. 
Red-hammer is not altogether idle during the 
months of rain and snow. When he does work 
he goes like an automatic toy wound to the limit. 
As soon as the weather brightens into the first 

I have watched the 


warm, spring-like day he and his mate have a 
wooden house well near its completion. Last 
spring when I first discovered the brand new 
hole at the top of the stump, the lady of the 
house sidled around the tree like a bashful school- 
girl when I went near, always keeping on the 
opposite side and peeking around the curve. 
Few birds have larger families than the high- 
hole. But were it not for the number of his 
family how could he hold his own among so 
many enemies? His conspicuous size and color 
always draw the aim of the small boy’s gun, 
and every village lad in the land has collected 
flicker’s eggs. He is a fellow of expediency, 
however. If his home is robbed his mate soon 
lays another set of eggs. It is on record that 

FLICKER 
PERCHED ON A STUMP. 
one pair, when tested by the removal of egg 
after egg, laid seventy-one eggs in seventy-three 
days. 
In the hollowed heart of the punky fir, on a 
bed of fine wood bits, lay seven glossy eggs, in- 
animate, but full of promise. They all had the 
tinge of vital flesh pink. Each imprisoned a 
precarious spark of life, to be fanned by the 
magic brooding of the mother’s breast. 
Red-hammer had grown quite trustful. We 
got a ladder twenty-five feet long which reached 
about up to the nest. The eggs had been placed 
a foot and a half below the round entrance. On 
the opposite side from the entrance and on a 
level with the eggs we sawed out a back door, 
giving a good view of the living room and let- 
ting in a little sunlight. With the camera ready 
to snap, firmly fastened to a small board, we 
climbed the tree. Holding it out to a measured 
distance we aimed it downward at the eggs. The 
first attempt came nearer landing camera and 
all in a heap in the shallow water of the pond 
than getting a picture of the eggs, but after 
several trials a good picture was taken. 
Neither female nor male flicker seemed exactly 
to understand our right of making free with 
their home. The former nervously returned to 
her nest each time we descended the tree. She 
climbed in the front door. It was easy enough 
to recognize her own eggs, but that new door 
was a puzzle. She had to slip out and examine 
it half a dozen times, returning always by the 
round door above. This modernized dwelling 
made her a little uneasy, but she soon settled 
down, satisfied to brood and watch her gossip- 
ing neighbors at the same time. After we 
fastened up the new entrance flicker affairs went 
on as usual. 
Those naked baby flickers were the ugliest 
little bird youngsters I ever saw. High-hole did 
not carry their dinners in her bill as a warbler 
feeds her young. She nourished the bantlings 
with the partially digested food of her own craw. 
She jabbed her long sharp beak down their 
throats till I thought she would stab them to 
death. Yet they liked it. They called for more 
with a peculiar hissing noise. A few feet away 
it sounded like the buzz of maddened bees. I 
always feel iike jumping to the ground and tak- 
ing to the timber the instant that swarmy sound 
strikes my ears. It is not exactly cowardice, but 
bird curiosity once led me to pry into the sacred 
precincts of a hornet’s nest in a hollow log, and 
I have been a little skittish since. I am not sure 
of nature’s reason for providing woodpeckers 
with such a peculiar baby prattle, but I know the 
sound has scared more than one boy into shying 
away from a flicker’s home. 
In the heart of the fir development was rapid. 
The thin, drawn lids of each callow prisoner 
cracked and revealed a pair of black eyes. 
Feathers sprouted and spread from the rolls of 
fatty tissue up and down their backs. Each bill 
pointed ever upward to the light. The instant 
the doorway darkened each sprung open to its 
limit. The nestlings took to climbing the walls, 
not solely for amusement. The sharp ears of 
each youngster caught the scrape of the mother’s 
claws the instant she clutched the bark of the 
tree, and this sound always precipitated a neck- 
stretching scramble toward the door. The young 
woodpeckers had little chance of exercising their 
wings, so the next time we climbed the tree with 
the camera they were apparently full grown, 
strong in climbing, but to our advantage weak 
in flying, 
We are not likely to forget the day we climbed 
the stump to picture the young flickers. The 
full significance of the task had not struck us. 
Nor had the enjoyment of it dawned upon the 
fledglings. They were bashful at first, but after 
a little coaxing and fondling they were as tame 
as pet pussies. They climbed out and crowded 
the stump top, where they sat in the warm sun- 
shine, stretching, fluffng, bowing and preening. 
They liked to cling to our clothing. A coat 
sleeve was easier to climb than a tree trunk, and 
it was softer to penetrate with a peck. There 
was a streak of ambition in the soul of each 
flicker that would put most people to shame. 
They climbed continually and always toward the 
top. Up our arms to our shoulders they would 
go, and then to our head. Just at the instant 
one’s mind and energy were directed toward 
balancing in the tree top, he was sure to get 
a series of jabs in the cheek. One might endure 
the scratch of the sharp claws as they penetrated 
his clothing now and then, but he would be likely 
to cringe under the sting of a chisel-shaped drill 
boring with rapid blows into his arm. 
I could not see any use of the parents work- 
ing themselves to death feeding such ravenous, 
full grown children. ‘They might as well hustle 
a little for themselves,” I said, as I climbed the 
stump the next morning. We took all five of 
the fledglings to the ground. Wild strawberries 
they gulped down with a decided relish until we 
got tired and cut short the supply. We soon had 
a regular “yar-uping” concert. One young cock 
clutched the bark with his claws, his stiff tail 
feathers propping his body in the natural wood- 
pecker position, as he hitched nestward up the 
tree, followed by his mates. 
During our early acquaintance 
flickers savagely resisted our attempts to coax 
them out of their home, but after a few hours 
in the warm sunshine they fought every effort 
to put ‘them back. They were no longer nest- 
lings, for a bit of confidence had transformed 
them into full fledged birds of the world. 
WiL1iAM L. FINLEY. 
the fledgling: 



























































































