ng his progress, he suddenly
reached a resolution,--seconded, I have no doubt, from the rear,--and
launched forth upon his untried wings. They served him well, and carried
him about fifty yards up-hill the first heat. The second day after, the
next in size and spirit left in the same manner; then another, till only
one remained. The parent birds ceased their visits to him, and for one
day he called and called till our ears were tired of the sound. His was
the faintest heart of all. Then he had none to encourage him from
behind. He left the nest and clung to the outer bole of the tree, and
yelped and piped for an hour longer; then he committed himself to his
wings and went his way like the rest.

The matchmaking of the high-holes, which often comes under my
observation, is in marked contrast to that of the robins and the
bluebirds. There does not appear to be any anger or any blows. The male
or two males will alight on a limb in front of the female, and go
through with a series of bowings and scrapings that are truly comical.
He spreads his tail, he puffs out his breast, he throws back his head
and then bends his body to the right and to the left, uttering all the
while a curious musical hiccough. The female confronts him unmoved, but
whether her attitude is critical or defensive, I cannot tell. Presently
she flies away, followed by her suitor or suitors, and the little comedy
is enacted on another stump or tree. Among all the woodpeckers the drum
plays an important part in the matchmaking. The male takes up his stand
on a dry, resonant limb, or on the ridgeboard of a building, and beats
the loudest call he is capable of. A favorite drum of the high-holes
about me is a hollow wooden tube, a section of a pump, which stands as a
bird-box upon my summer-house. It is a good instrument; its tone is
sharp and clear. A high-hole alights upon it, and sends forth a rattle
that can be heard a long way off. Then he lifts up his head and utters
that long April call, _Wick, wick, wick, wick_. Then he drums again. If
the female does not find him, it is not because he does not make noise
enough. But his sounds are all welcome to the ear. They are simple and
primitive, and voice well a certain sentiment of the April days. As I
write these lines I hear through the half-open door his call come up
from a distant field. Then I hear the steady hammering of one that has
been for three days trying to penetrate the weather boarding of the big
i