ification takes place.

The particular woodpecker to which I refer drilled his first hole in my
apple-tree one fall four or five years ago. This he occupied till the
following spring, when he abandoned it. The next fall he began a hole in
an adjoining limb, later than before, and when it was about half
completed a female took possession of his old quarters. I am sorry to
say that this seemed to enrage the male very much, and he persecuted the
poor bird whenever she appeared upon the scene. He would fly at her
spitefully and drive her off. One chilly November morning, as I passed
under the tree, I heard the hammer of the little architect in his
cavity, and at the same time saw the persecuted female sitting at the
entrance of the other hole as if she would fain come out. She was
actually shivering, probably from both fear and cold. I understood the
situation at a glance; the bird was afraid to come forth and brave the
anger of the male. Not till I had rapped smartly upon the limb with my
stick did she come out and attempt to escape; but she had not gone ten
feet from the tree before the male was in hot pursuit, and in a few
moments had driven her back to the same tree, where she tried to avoid
him among the branches. There is probably no gallantry among the birds
except at the mating season. I have frequently seen the male woodpecker
drive the female away from the bone upon the tree. When she hopped
around to the other end and timidly nibbled it, he would presently dart
spitefully at her. She would then take up her position in his rear and
wait till he had finished his meal. The position of the female among the
birds is very much the same as that of women among savage tribes. Most
of the drudgery of life falls upon her, and the leavings of the males
are often her lot.

[Illustration: DOWNY WOODPECKER]

My bird is a genuine little savage, doubtless, but I value him as a
neighbor. It is a satisfaction during the cold or stormy winter nights
to know he is warm and cozy there in his retreat. When the day is bad
and unfit to be abroad in, he is there too. When I wish to know if he is
at home, I go and rap upon his tree, and, if he is not too lazy or
indifferent, after some delay he shows his head in his round doorway
about ten feet above, and looks down inquiringly upon me--sometimes
latterly I think half resentfully, as much as to say, "I would thank you
not to disturb me so often." After sundown, he will not put his head o