SPRINGTIME.

Air—"Auld Lang Syne."

Ellen Beauchamp.

DO APPLE SEEDS POINT UP OR DOWN?

—Carolyn Wells in St. Nicholas.

—William H. Hayne.

THE JOLLY OLD CROW.

—Selected.

THEY'LL COME AGAIN.

A PLUMP LITTLE GIRL AND A THIN LITTLE BIRD.

—M. M. Dodge.

HOW THE WOODPECKER KNOWS.

THE BOY'S PROTEST.

—New York Independent.

THE ORIOLE'S SONG.

—Sheila.

THE RED-HEADED WOODPECKER.

By Florence Merriam Bailey.

The National Association of Audubon Societies Educational Leaflet No. 43.

The Woodpeckers are a band of foresters most of whom spend their lives saving trees. Many of them do their work hidden in the dark forests, but the Red-heads hunt largely out in plain sight of passers-by. Why? Because, while they devour enough enemies of the trees to deserve the name of foresters, they are particularly fond of vegetable foods and large beetles found in the open.

Watch one of the handsome Red-headed birds on a fence. Down he drops to pick up an ant or a grasshopper from the ground; then up he shoots to catch a wasp or beetle in the air. Nor does he stop with fly-catching. Nutting—beech-nutting—is one of his favorite pastimes; while berries, fruits and seeds are all to his taste. If, in his appreciation of the good things that man offers, the Red-head on rare occasions takes a bit more cultivated fruit or berries than his rightful share, his attention should be diverted by planting some of his favorite wild fruits, such as dogwood, mulberry, elderberry, chokecherry, or wild black cherry.

But, in judging of what is a bird's fair share of man's crops, many things should be considered. Food is bought for the Canary and other house pets; and many people who do not care for caged pets buy food for the wild birds summer and winter, to bring them to their houses. Flowers cost something, too. But without birds and flowers, what would the country be? Before raising his hand against a bird, a man should think of many things. A man who is unfair to a bird is unfair to himself.

Feeding
Habits.

It would be a stingy man, indeed, who would begrudge the Woodpeckers their acorns and beechnuts. While the leaves are still green on the trees, the Redheads discover the beechnuts and go to work. "It is a truly beautiful sight," Dr. Merriam says, "to watch these magnificent birds creeping about after the manner of Warblers, among the small branches and twigs, which bend low with their weight, while picking and husking the tender nuts."

The nuts are not always eaten on the spot, for, like their famous California cousins, the Redheads store up food for winter use. All sorts of odd nooks and crannies serve the Redheads for storehouses—knot-holes, pockets under patches of raised bark, cracks between shingles and fences, and even railroad ties. Sometimes, instead of nuts, grasshoppers and other eatables are put away in storage. The wise birds at times make real caches, concealing their stores by hammering down pieces of wood or bark over them.

Beechnuts are such a large part of the fall and winter food of the Redheads in some localities, that, like the gray squirrels, the birds are common in good beechnut winters and absent in others. Cold and snow do not trouble them, if they have plenty to eat, for, as Major Bendire says, many of them "winter along our northern border, in certain years, when they can find an abundant supply of food." In fact, in the greater part of the eastern states the Redhead is "a rather regular resident," but in the western part of its range "It appears to migrate pretty regularly," so that it is rare to see one "North of latitude 40°, in winter." The western boundary of the Redhead's range is the Rocky Mountains, but east of the mountains it breeds from Manitoba and northern New York south to the Gulf of Mexico; though it is a rare bird in eastern New England.

Migration.

In sections where this erratic Woodpecker migrates, it leaves its nesting-grounds early in October, and returns the latter part of April or the beginning of May. Before too much taken up with the serious business of life, the Redhead goes gaily about, as Major Bendire says, "frolicking and playing hide-and-seek with its mate, and when not so engaged, amusing itself by drumming on some resonant dead limb, or on the roof and sides of houses, barns, etc." For though, like other drummers, the Woodpeckers are not found in the front ranks of the orchestra, they beat a royal tattoo that may well express many fine feelings.

When the musical spring holiday is over and the birds have chosen a tree for the nest, they hew out a pocket in a trunk or branch, anywhere from eight to eighty feet from the ground. When the young hatch, there comes a happy day for the looker-on who, by kind intent and unobtrusive way, has earned the right to watch the lovely birds flying back and forth, caring for their brood.

Nest.

And then, at last, come the days when the gray-headed youngsters, from hanging out of the window, boldly open their wings and launch into the air. Anxious times these are for old birds,—times when the watcher's admiration may be roused by heroic deeds of parental love; for many a parent bird fairly flaunts in the face of the enemy, as if trying to say, "Kill me; spare my young!"

One family of Redheads once gave me a delightful three weeks. When the old birds were first discovered, one was on a stub in a meadow. When joined by its mate, as the farmer was coming with oxen and hayrack to take up the rows of haycocks that led down the field, the pair flew slowly ahead along a line of locusts, pecking quietly at the bark of each tree before flying on. At the foot of the meadow they flew over to a small grove in the adjoining pasture.

As it was July, it was easy to draw conclusions. And when I went to the grove to investigate, the pair were so much alarmed that they at once corroborated my conclusions. Did I mean harm? Why had I come? One of them leaned far down across a dead limb and inspected me, rattling and bowing nervously; the other stationed itself on the back of a branch over which it peered at me with one eye. Both of them cried krit-tar-rah every time I ventured to take a step. As they positively would not commit themselves as to which one of the many Woodpecker holes in sight belonged to them I had to make a tour of the grove.

On its edge was a promising old stub with a number of big, round holes and, picking up a stick, I rapped on the trunk. Both birds were over my head in an instant, rattling and scolding till you would have thought I had come to chop down the tree and carry off the young before their eyes. I felt injured, but having found the nest could afford to watch from a distance.

It was not long before the old birds began feeding their young. They would fly to the stub and stand under the nest while rousing the brood by rattling into the hole, which had the odd effect of muffling their voices. When, as they flew back and forth a Yellow-hammer stopped in passing, they drove him off in a hurry. They wanted that grove to themselves.

On my next visits, if, in spite of many precautions, they discovered me, they flew to dead tree tops to watch me, or startled me by an angry quarr´ quarr´ quarr´ over my head. When they found that I made no attempt to go near the nest, however, they finally put up with me and went about their business.

After being at the nest together they would often fly off in opposite directions, to hunt on different beats. If one hunted in the grove, the other would go out to the rail fence. A high maple was a favorite lookout and hunting-ground for the one who stayed in the grove, and cracks in the bark afforded good places to wedge insects into. The bird who hunted on the fence, if suspecting a grub in a rail, would stand motionless as a Robin on the grass, apparently listening; but when the right moment came would drill down rapidly and spear the grub. If an insect passed that way the Redhead would make a sally into the air for it, sometimes shooting straight up for fifteen or twenty feet and coming down almost as straight; at others flying out and back in an ellipse, horizontally or obliquely up in the air or down over the ground. But oftener than all, perhaps, it flew down onto the ground to pick up something which its sharp eyes had discovered there. Once it brought up some insect, hit it against the rail, gave a business-like hop and flew off to feed its young.

The young left the nest between my visits, but when, chancing to focus my glass on a passing Woodpecker I discovered that its head was gray instead of red, I knew for a certainty what had happened. The fledgling seemed already much at home on its wings. It flew out into the air, caught a white miller and went back to the tree with it, shaking it and then rapping it vigorously against a branch before venturing to swallow it. When the youngster flew, I followed rousing a Robin who made such an outcry that one of the old Redheads flew over in alarm. "Kik-a-rik, kik-a-rik," it cried as it hurried from tree to tree, trying to keep an eye on me while looking for the youngster. Neither of us could find it for some time, but after looking in vain over the west side of a big tree I rounded the trunk and found it calmly sitting on a branch on the east side—which goes to prove that it is never safe to say a Woodpecker isn't on a tree, till you have seen both sides!

The old Redhead found the lost fledgling about the time that I did and flew over to it with what looked like a big grub. At the delectable sight, the youngster dropped all its airs of independence, and with weak infantile cries turned and opened wide its bill!

Two days later I found two birds that may have been father and son, on the side of a gladpole, out in the big world together. The old bird's head glowed crimson in the strong sunlight, and it was fortunate indeed that only friends were by.

The striking tricolor makes the Redheads such good targets that they are in especial danger from human enemies and need loyal, valiant defenders wherever they live. And what a privilege it is to have birds of such interesting habits and beautiful plumage in your neighborhood! How the long country roads are enlivened, how the green fields are lit up, as one of the brilliant birds rises from a fence-post and flies over them! In the city, it is rare good luck, indeed, to have a pair nest in an oak where you can watch them and even a passing glimpse or an occasional visit is something to be thankful for.

"There's the Redhead!" you exclaim exultantly, when a loud tattoo beats on your city roof in spring. And "There's the Redhead!" you cry with delight, as a soft kikarik comes from a leafless oak you are passing in winter; and the city street, so dull and uninteresting before, is suddenly illumined by the sight.

—Reprinted from Bird-lore.

FOUR LEAF CLOVERS.

—Ella Higginson.

THE FLOWER FOLK.

—Christina G. Rossetti.

ARBOR DAY MARCH.

Air—"Marching Through Georgia."

ARBOR DAY SONG.

(Air: Hold the Fort.)

—Iowa Special Days.

WE LOVE THE TREES.

(Tune: "There's Music in the Air.")

—Ada S. Sherwood, in Journal of Education.

RECITATION.

—Selected.

GOIN' BAREFOOTED.

—Burges Johnson, in "Harper's Magazine."

—Browning.

—O. W. Holmes.

—Lowell.

TIME TO RISE.

Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made and forgot to put a soul into.

—Beecher.

The best verses I have printed are the trees I have planted.

—Holmes.

—Emerson.

THE WISEACRES OF THE FOREST.

From Nature and Culture.

So many have an idea that bird-life does not blossom out until the flowers do, and that our shy neighbors do not wake to life and joy and song until the warm breezes of spring have chased to the realm of memory winter's cold and snow. Several weeks of wandering through the woods during the months of January and February taught me that to him who has time to devote, and that amount of patience which enables a hunter to rise at three in the morning, crawl through wet, tangled swamp-grass in the cold and snow, and then sit shivering for hours in a "hide" awaiting the ducks, there will be shots, camera shots, replete with interest and full of instruction; revelations of a world's population little known because of their unobtrusive life. They who lead the "simple life" may not make as much stir in the world as some others we know: but never make the mistake of thinking the life one lacking in interest. These "little journeys" of mine were for the purpose of prying into the secrets of our friends "the owls." As far back as the uncovered picture-writing of the ancients, Mr. Owl has been the synonym for wisdom. Does he deserve the title?

As company lends interest, I was accompanied by a friend who took equal delight in these jaunts; and off we started one fourteenth of January. For some six miles we tramped along the Kaw Valley, in Kansas, ever on the lookout for trees with large hollow trunks or broken limbs. Now, if any one believes an owl is entirely a night-bird, let him follow in my footsteps, and he will learn a thing or two. These are some of the mysteries of "the wild." Entering a spot of the forest where the banks of the stream were lined thickly on both sides with trees, both large and small, we seated ourselves for a time to rest and to watch. Like Egyptian darkness, the quiet was of a kind to be felt, but it did not long remain this way. Suddenly the strange quiet was broken by a fierce, angry call of a crow. Now, where did he come from, and why this display of anger? Possibly at our intrusion; yet this could hardly be, as it was far too early in the season for the crow to be nesting. Before we had time to settle our question the stillness was further broken by several shrill answers, and into the branchy arena came other crows. These were followed by others, and still others. Surely we were not the cause of all this disturbance. Finally there were no less than two dozen crows flying around a large tree with a broken top, and making a clatter that would have put a boiler factory to shame. One could easily imagine it to be a congress of crows exorcised over an insurgency move and demanding the previous question. Then came the solution of the mystery. In dignified yet rapid flight a huge owl dropped from a limb on the other side of the stump, and with a flight as silent as the grave winged her way into the deeper woods followed by that rabble of noisy, cawing crows. It seemed strange that the owl did not turn upon her tormentors; she who had talons long, strong, and sharp; a beak that could easily make its impression upon a pine stick; but her reputed wisdom here led her to know that safety lay in flight, as her size would be her undoing; that the crow would find many points of attack ere she could turn around. Safety lay in flight and shelter where the crows could not reach her, and would finally caw themselves hoarse and tired, and at last depart. Many times have I watched these actions on the part of the owls and crows, and always with the same results. Not alone the larger, but also the smaller owls adopt the same course of action to escape their tormentors. This leads me to believe that this partly accounts for their foraging at night.

We now turned our attention to the tree—truly a monarch of the "forest primeval"—a huge sycamore, about five feet in diameter at the base, with few limbs to aid in climbing. But we simply must get up to that hollow, and after much effort success was ours; and there, deep down in the hole, on a bed of warm chips and half-rotted punky wood, all nicely cuddled up, lay two little fluffy white baby owls—young hoot owls. As it takes about four weeks for incubation, and these babies were fully a week old, nesting must have begun at least in the middle of December. Much depends on the winter; this one having been very mild. In fact, I have noticed that birds are quite accurate weather prophets, were we only skilled enough to read their predictions. But it is always safe, I find, to be early in the field. And now came our first disappointment. It was impossible to secure a picture of the nest and baby owls, owing to the unfavorable position of the tree and nest; so, taking a farewell look at the place, we returned, hoping for better luck next time.

The following week we were out and at it again, and were more fortunate in that we discovered the home of another owl, similar in shape, but smaller, and differently marked. This was the barred owl, so called because of its markings. Here, again, the nest was up quite a ways, and difficult to get to. After much trouble we cut down a small tree and hoisted it into the larger tree so that it came near the hole where the nest was. This enabled me to get above the nest, so that I could swing down to the hole by a rope and get a view of the nest and contents. After many attempts I succeeded in snapping two or three negatives, one of which turned out fairly good and accompanies this article. Every move I made while taking the pictures was punctuated by hoots of anger and disgust by the mother owl, who had flown to a nearby tree, until she aroused the attention of some ever-observant crows; then she had all she could do taking care of herself and getting rid of her tormentors. If ever a free matinee in birdland was billed, it occurred that afternoon.

The weeks now slowly passed without further success. One must have patience, much patience, in birdland. It may take years to secure what will prove satisfactory views of some species. Many snaps, when taken, prove undesirable after development, and each week adds to the uncertainty of finding anything "at home" when next you come. While the percentage of successful incubation is fairly large, yet the numerous enemies of the feathered tribe make the uncertainty of life in birdland quite noticeable.

The time was now ripe for us to turn our attention to the little screech owls; a small but interesting and valuable species. Here I found a marked difference. Any small hole or cavity suits their fancy. Generally speaking, it must be small enough to exclude larger birds or animals that might prey upon them; but at times their boasted wisdom seemingly forsakes them, and they take up with any habitation. I have known them to nest in boxes in shade-trees and in bird-houses under the eaves of the barn. On this trip I found a fresh set of eggs in an old hollow stump formerly made by and used as the nesting-place of the yellow-shafted woodpecker. Mrs. Owl was at home, and very much disliked being disturbed. Unlike the larger owls, she refused to fly away, and I had to lift her repeatedly from the eggs that I might take the picture. As sometimes happens, the negative was a failure; and returning the next week to try for better luck, I found safely curled up within the cavity an opossum. The eggs and mother bird were not in evidence, and the "possum" told no tales. Similar experiences have often occurred to me when I have returned for better views or to follow up a certain line of study.

The next nest of this species I found in a large hollow limb, which in falling had lodged crosswise in a tree. It was rather a queer place for a screech owl, but, I presume, suited her fancy. However, it was favorably located, and if successful I could at least follow up the process of nature; and this is just what I did. The only change made was in bringing the eggs, and later the young, forward from the recess of the cavity to insure better light. I wished to also take the parent bird upon the nest; but in this case they were perverse, and refused to be taken. One of the birds decided that he did not wish to be taken, and after repeated trials I concluded he knew best, and gave over the attempt. I also took the most courageous one and posed him on the stump of the tree. The result is not altogether satisfactory, but is interesting.

My next acquisition was the long-eared owl. With camera and tripod strapped upon the bicycle I started upon a ride of some fifteen miles, which brought me to an old nursery, abandoned, overgrown, and wild. Here, in a much-neglected fir grove I found the nests and eggs of this variety. The first taken was in a pine. Climbing an adjacent tree, I located myself about five feet from the nest, and after carefully securing and focussing the camera, secured the view. My second I found later in the day in an apple tree. The tree was in bloom, but not leaved out, and offered but scant hide or protection for the nest. Indeed I, at first, took it for an old crow's nest, and was about to pass on, when up over the rim of the nest bobbed two long ear-like tufts—whence the bird gets its name. Approaching the tree, the mother quietly left, and as long as I was in that vicinity I saw nothing further of her. The long-eared owl is not very particular in the choice of her nesting-place. They will often build in a communal manner, several pairs selecting a fir grove or other suitable place; and here you will find the nests quite near together. Again, they will be isolated in location; one here, and another quite a distance away, as the notion strikes them. The nest also seems to vary with their state of mind. At times they will build a very elaborate structure of their own; then, again, they take up with an old crow's nest or the summer nest of a squirrel, and with very little patching up make this answer their purpose. Because of this variability on their part, it is not an easy matter to locate an occupied nest.

One more, and I am done with the owls. The securing of this was of great interest to me, not alone for the sake of the picture, but because it settled two questions on which I had long been in doubt. At the time of which I now write I was living in an Indian school, and previous to this all my ideas of Indians and Indian life had been gathered from Cooper. Near the school was a large village of prairie dogs covering something like ten acres of ground. One day I saw a small species of owl flying around and lighting on the different mounds. I immediately knew it to be the burrowing owl; but where among all those thousand and more holes to dig for her was a question I could not answer. To assist me, I brought the supposed craft of the red man's children to bear; but of no avail. Not one of over two hundred could give me the least ray of light. Then I got down to principles and discovered that there were some mounds around which were scattered butterflies' and grasshoppers' legs and wings, parts of frogs and toads, and the little pellets usually ejected by owls in the process of digestion. I also found that these mounds were invariably covered by an animal compost gathered from the surrounding prairie. I resolved to put my theory to the test by digging into one of these holes. Here the Indian boy was a great help, as he thoroughly knew his verb "to dig." I followed the hole down through hardpan to a depth of three feet, and back for over ten feet, where at last I found Mrs. Owl sitting on her nest of fresh eggs. Here I took her picture while her large round eyes followed my every move as I focused and snapped her. It was while investigating this subject that I also exploded a somewhat common belief that prairie dogs, owls, and rattlesnakes live together in the same quarters in perfect amity. This is not the case. If they are ever found together it is either an accident unknown to one or the other party, or one of three has purposely crawled into the other's home for deeds dark and evil.

Altogether the experiences gained amply repaid me for the effort spent. These visits to the silent ones were payments ample enough in themselves, but my closer acquaintance with a very interesting family made them doubly so. I find that the owl is one of our best and most valuable friends, destroying during a season much of the troublesome animal population that injures the agricultural interests of the land. If careless boys and indifferent "others" could get this fact well grounded and use some other mark in target practice, all parties would be better off and much good gained. To take any life is ill, but to take good life is crime.

THE JAYS.

ADDRESS OF THE BIRDS.

An Exercise for Five Pupils.