_Woodpeckers._
Near where this tent is pitched is a soft maple tree with a decayed limb
in its top, and about one-half dozen downy woodpeckers are making their
home there. This morning there is about four inches of snow, and the air
is still, so that I could hear these little God-given helpers at work.
So I took the ax and went and cut some samples to show you just what
they are doing, cutting these little trees off three inches above and
below the gimlet holes made by the birds; then I split the blocks and
photographed them. Of course I knew before I went what they were doing,
as I have noticed their valuable work for over twenty-five years. The
illustration shows gimlet holes made in the proper place by Mr. and Mrs.
Woodpecker; then with their long, sharp, bearded tongues which they
insert into the grub they gradually draw him out, either head or tail
first, I don’t know which. The life of the tree is thus saved.
Some years ago when I was cutting timber to secure lumber to build my
present home, we sawed down an oak tree over four feet in diameter. The
heart of this tree showed where the little woodpeckers had taken the
grubs out, over a hundred and fifty years ago, as the marks were
preserved there, in the heart of that tree, as plain as they are in the
photograph reproduced above. And through their help, a hundred years
before I was born, I am able to have nice quarter-cut oak in my home
to-day.
[Illustration:
Wormhole. Gimlet-hole made by Woodpecker.
HOW THE WOODPECKER GETS THE WORM]
Yes, the photograph makes me think more seriously of myself than it does
of you. Is it possible that Jack Miner was ever so ignorant and cruel as
to shoot one of these dear little forest-protectors just for the fun of
seeing him fall!
But there is an old proverb, familiar to all, “Misery likes company.” A
friend of mine was telling me just yesterday how he and his man went to
the back cornfield and shot the red-headed woodpecker because they were
pulling his corn. After they had killed all the old birds in sight the
man suggested that they cut the old stub down and destroy the
fledglings. When this stub fell, the rotten nests broke up in dozens of
pieces, killing the young. As the crop of each of these little birds
resembled a wart on a needle, they decided to cut them open and see the
amount of corn each contained; but to their surprise they were packed
full of injurious worms and bugs, and not one kernel of corn could be
found.
Now these two incidents are only fair examples of the ignorance of us
human beings during the past, regarding bird life. I could go on
enumerating such convincing points for a week about our beautiful
bobolink, meadow-lark, and the song-sparrow family, and dozens and
dozens of other insectivorous birds. This is all outside their song
service, and the cheerful, clear note of such as the bobolink as he
flutters across the meadow, singing “Johnny why don’t you mend your
britches?” or of the cat-bird, who is perfectly willing to come and sing
in your back yard if you will plant just a little shrubbery.
This calls to mind a particular friend of mine, Mr. Angus Woodbridge,
whose summer home is about three miles from where I live, located on the
north shore of Lake Erie. He has less than two acres, but the fifth year
the shrubbery was planted there were over seventy birds’ nests around
this lovely home, twenty different varieties, a pair of mourning doves
being so bold as to build on the window-sill and raise their young
there. The brown thrasher, who has such a beautiful imitating voice,
could not resist the temptation and built his home in the wild grape
arbor that covers the path in the little ravine that wends its way down
to the sandy beach. My chief reason for mentioning this fact is to make
it plain that these beautiful creatures will come clear across the
continent to you, if you will go a few steps towards them.