Billie is the handsomest Flicker that comes to the grove of oaks on the
north campus of the college and that is saying a great deal. For several
years he has occupied a splendid house hollowed out with much labor in
the great oak by the power house. Just above the portico of his house
Billie has his xylophone. This remarkable instrument is just seasoned
enough and has just the correct spring in its splinters. Here every
morning, at this season, he beats a series of tunes, monotonous perhaps,
but rather pleasing to Billie and me. After beating a tune, he screams
at the top of his voice, “Get up; get up.” He is an alarm clock and a
great nuisance to those who love their morning nap, but I would not
allow him to be disturbed, he seems so business-like and earnest. My
wife was disposed to disparage his musical attainments, but when she saw
the marvelous rapidity of his strokes and the beauty of his red crest
flashing in the slanting sunlight she became a partisan.
It should be said, of course, that after the brief season of courtship
is over and Billie’s wife is busy about her housekeeping, he is less
musical and we do not have our reveille so regularly.
Early last spring a pair of English sparrows took possession of Billie’s
house and worked with a diligence worthy a better cause to fill it with
sticks and bits of straw. I was interested at once and waited eagerly to
see what Billie would do when he should return. I did not have many days
to wait. One fine day I heard Billie hammering a gay tune. I watched and
was soon rewarded. Billie seemed taken aback, but soon recovered from
his surprise and proceeded to clean house at a great rate. Meantime the
sparrows could do nothing but scold, and I confess to a degree of
satisfaction in their discomfiture. For once the speckled little
Ishmaelites were impotent.
Finally the last straw was thrown out and Billie perched upon the limb
that served as a portico for his house, screamed with defiance and
satisfaction. Soon he flew to a distant part of the grove in search of
the future Mrs. Flicker, I suppose, and was gone for perhaps an hour.
The sparrows worked desperately and had nearly all of the material
replaced when Billie, disappointed in his quest and in no very good
humor, returned. This time Billie’s patience was entirely gone and he
threw sticks right and left, stopping occasionally to scream with anger.
He seemed to know there would be little use in chasing the pesky
sparrows. He did not go far from home after that, so that the sparrows
were compelled to go house hunting elsewhere.
Billie mounted guard over his fireside and his altars for several days,
treating us to a quantity if not a variety of drum solos, and the
seductive notes of his cross cut saw of a voice were in constant
evidence. He never knew the sorrow of the human performer of like merit
when his best friends are willing for him to rest.
One fine day a demure looking female, attracted by his music, came and
critically examined the house. I knew she was already won, but Billie
did not, and it was amusing to watch his antics. Did you ever see a
Flicker desperately in love? It was evidently love at first sight with
Billie. He spread his wings, showed the jet black crescent on his vest,
displayed the crimson glory of his crest, played his most catchy tune on
the xylophone and sang his most melodious song. Meantime the coy female,
already decided, still appeared to be unable to make up her mind. She
made as if to go on, and Billie was in despair, and redoubled his
persuasion. She had never heard such a tattoo, nor seen such a
xylophone, nor yet so fine a fellow as Billie. Soon she stopped her
pretended search for larvae under the loose bark and made another
inspection of the house. She exemplified the maxim, “To hesitate is to
be lost,” and soon she and Billie were busy with their housekeeping. The
sparrows got no further chance to occupy Billie’s summer home. A happy
family was reared and educated and in the autumn disappeared.
As I write Billie has returned and is beating a merry tune, while six or
more sparrows sit around listening as if to learn how. Mrs. Flicker has
not yet returned, but I believe the sparrows have given up the idea of
taking his house. I am in doubt about Mrs. Flicker, but I know Billie.
He is larger and handsomer than ever. I have studied his every beautiful
feather. Sometimes I think he jumps behind a limb just to tease me, but
I am fond of him and I hope he may return for many years.
Rowland Watts.
BEAUTIFUL VINES TO BE FOUND IN OUR WILD WOODS.
II.
A vine of great beauty in our autumn woods, with its great masses of
scarlet berries, is the Celastrus scandens—Climbing Bittersweet or
Wax-work.
It belongs to the order Celastraceae—Staff tree family—to which family
belongs the wahoo or burning-bush, with which we are all familiar, from
seeing its abundant red berries in the autumn woods and in the parks.
The flowers of the Celastrus or Bittersweet are small, greenish and
regular, growing in clusters at the end of the branchlets, the staminate
and pistillate forms usually on separate plants, which accounts for the
fact that we often see a beautiful vine that has bloomed profusely
bearing no flowers; the flowers have five distinct spreading petals,
inserted with the alternate stamens on the edge of the disk that lines
the base of the calyx. Its five united sepals form a cup-shaped calyx.
It has five stamens, one thick style and a three-celled ovary, with
three to six seeds. It can be found in full blossom about the first of
June.
The leaves of the Bittersweet are from two to three and a half inches in
length, simple alternate, slightly fine-toothed, and are found from egg
shaped and oblong to the reversed of egg shaped, the apex always
pointed, while the base is sometimes pointed and sometimes rounded. The
fruit of the Bittersweet is about one-third of an inch in diameter,
round and a deep orange color, three-celled with two seeds in each cell;
when it is ripe, it opens into three parts, showing six bright scarlet
berries within.
The Celastrus is a strong, woody climber, twining upon itself in coils
and swirls, over fences and walls and bushes to great distances, often
to the top of immensely high trees.
It is immensely showy and beautiful in the very late fall when its
leaves are all fallen off and its woody branches are left thickly
studded with its orange and scarlet fruit. I remember especially one
Christmas eve, in Kentucky, that we gathered great bunches of it; we
found it growing over an old stone ruin in great masses and gathering
it, with large bunches of mistletoe, it made ideal decorations for our
Christmas festivities.
J. O. Cochran.