glish sparrow would probably drive him out; but in the woods, I
think, he is rarely molested, though in one instance I knew him
to be dispossessed by a flying squirrel.

On stormy days I have known Downy to return to his chamber in
mid-afternoon, and to lie abed there till ten in the morning.

I have no knowledge that any other species of our woodpeckers
excavate these winter quarters, but they probably do. The
chickadee has too slender a beak for such work, and usually
spends the winter nights in natural cavities or in the abandoned
holes of Downy.

II

As I am writing here in my study these November days, a downy
woodpecker is excavating a chamber in the top of a chestnut post
in the vineyard a few yards below me, or rather, he is enlarging
a chamber which he or one of his fellows excavated last fall; he
is making it ready for his winter quarters. A few days ago I saw
him enlarging the entrance and making it a more complete circle.
Now he is in the chamber itself working away like a carpenter. I
hear his muffled hammering as I approach cautiously on the grass.
I make no sound and the hammering continues till I have stood for
a moment beside the post, then it suddenly stops and Downy's head
appears at the door. He glances at me suspiciously and then
hurries away in much excitement.

How did he know there was some one so near? As birds have no
sense of smell it must have been by some other means. I return to
my study and in about fifteen minutes Downy is back at work.
Again I cautiously and silently approach, but he is now more
alert, and when I am the width of three grape rows from him he
rushes out of his den and lets off his sharp, metallic cry as he
hurries away to some trees below the hill.

He does not return to his work again that afternoon. But I feel
certain that he will pass the night there and every night all
winter unless he is disturbed. So when my son and I are passing
along the path by his post with a lantern about eight o'clock in
the evening, I pause and say, "Let's see if Downy is at home." A
slight tap on the post and we hear Downy jump out of bed, as it
were, and his head quickly fills the doorway. We pass hurriedly
on and he does not take flight.

A few days later, just at sundown, as I am walking on the
terrace above, I see Downy come sweeping swiftly down through the
air on that long galloping flight of his, and alight on the big
maple on the brink of the hill above his retreat. He si