"I beg your pardon, my dear," said Mr. Flicker, "but you are quite
mistaken. That is _not_ a tree stump."
"Excuse me," said Mrs. Flicker gently, "but I still believe it is."
Now if they had been the sparrows, or the robins, or the red-winged
blackbirds, they would have gone on chattering and contradicting until
they came to using claws and bills, and many feathers would have been
shed; but they were the quiet, well-bred Flickers, and so they stopped
just here, and once more critically regarded the object in question.
"Whoever heard of a stump, old and gray and moss-covered, appearing
in one night?" said Mr. Flicker, after a pause. "I have seen more of
the world than you have, my dear, and I do assure you it would take
centuries to make a stump like that." Let it be here recorded that in
this Mr. Flicker was perfectly correct.
"Well, then," reasoned Mrs. Flicker, "if it is not a stump, _what is
it_?"
Mr. Flicker looked very wise. He turned his head first to one side
and then the other--flashing his beautiful scarlet crescent in the
sunlight. Then he sidled nearer to his wife and darting his head down
to her, whispered, "It is a _person_."
The timid Mrs. Flicker drew back into the nest in horror, and it was
some moments before she felt like putting her head out of the door
again. In the meantime she had quieted down to the thoughtful little
flicker she really was, and had gathered together her reasoning powers.
So out came the pretty fawn-colored head and again the argument began.
Though still quivering a little from the fright, Mrs. Flicker said,
in the firm tones of conviction, "No, Mr. Flicker, _that_ is not a
person. Persons move about with awkward motions. Persons make terrible
sounds with their bills. Persons have straight, ugly wings without
feathers--not made to fly with, but just to carry burdens instead
of carrying them in their bills. Persons wear colors that nature
disapproves. Persons point things at us that make a horrible sound and
sometimes kill. _Persons cannot keep still._ That is not a person."
Mr. Flicker was greatly impressed, and stood like a statue, gazing at
what his wife called a gray stump. She went back to ponder the matter
over her eggs.
The sprightly little warblers and goldfinches flashed in and out
through the bushes that grew thickly together on a small island
opposite Mr. Flicker's nest; the orioles called to one another in the
orchard back of him; the catbirds performed their ever-varying tricks
in the cherry tree near by; Mr. Water Wagtail came and splashed about
on the shore of the creek, and Mr. Kingfisher perched on a stump
in the water, watching for a dainty morsel, and still Mr. Flicker
sat regarding his new puzzle. He paid no attention to any of his
neighbors--but for that matter he seldom did, for the flickers are
aristocratic bird-folk, and mingle very little with their kind. But on
this day he was particularly oblivious, so greatly occupied was he with
the gray stump.
Once or twice he had detected a slight motion on the part of the stump;
a rustle, a change of position, a faint sign of life--just enough to
make his little bird-heart thump, but not enough to warrant flight in
so discreet a bird. But at last there began a quiet bending, bending of
the stump; it was very slow, but none the less certain, and Mr. Flicker
waited with throbbing heart, till he saw two large, round, glassy eyes
pointed full at him, then, with a quick note of warning for his little
wife, he rose in the air with a whirr, and the golden wings shimmered
away in the sunlight overhead.
Mrs. Flicker peeped cautiously forth, and, with her unerring bird
instinct, sought first of all the gray stump which, alas, was not quite
a stump after all, and was indeed the cause of the danger. She saw
the terrible instrument still pointed at her husband, and her heart
fluttered wildly; but there was no report, and she watched him till
she could only see the occasional flash of the gold-lined wings and
the white spot on his back; and then behold, the stump was once more a
stump, and Mrs. Flicker returned to her eggs.
When Mr. Flicker came back, he flew past his house without once
swerving, and disappeared in a pine tree on the edge of the orchard,
and a conclave of cedar waxwings in the next tree discussed his tactics
enthusiastically. The cedar waxwings were also interested in the gray
stump--but afraid of it? Oh no, not they! Care sits lightly on the
cedar waxwing's topknot, and he never takes his dangers seriously.
A series of deceiving and circuitous flights finally landed Mr. Flicker
at his own door, and he perched himself in his hiding-place of leaves
and watched the gray stump with an air of settled gloom.
However, a bird is a bird, even though it be a serious flicker, and
before many minutes he and his wife were chatting happily again. Mrs.
Flicker even asserted boldly that if _she_ had not her eggs to look
after, she would certainly investigate this thing; and then Mr. Flicker
began to preen his feathers as if in preparation for the undertaking,
but really to gain time and get up his courage, when, "Take care! Take
care!" came notes of warning from the catbirds; and the stump suddenly
lengthened itself like a telescope and walked away, with its two-eyed
instrument under its arm. Mr. and Mrs. Flicker watched it gather a
spray of late apple blossoms, saw it climb the fence and disappear down
the road.
"I beg your pardon," said polite little Mrs. Flicker to her husband.
"I was wrong; it is not a stump. But," she added coaxingly, "it really
is more like a stump than a person, now isn't it? And I should not be
afraid of it again."
* * * * *
When Miss Melissa Moore, school teacher, returned to Manhattan after
her summer vacation, she confided to a fellow-teacher that she had
made seventy new acquaintances, and that she loved them all. Now Miss
Melissa Moore, in her wildest dreams, never thought of herself as
being beautiful, being a plain, honest person; she even knew that her
bird-hunting costume--the short gray skirt and gray flannel shirt-waist
and gray felt hat, whose brim hung disconsolately over her glasses,
with no color at all to brighten her--was _not_ becoming, but if she
had dreamed that Mrs. Flicker had called her an old gray moss-covered
stump, she would, being only human, have cut her once and forever, and
her list of new acquaintances would have numbered sixty-nine.