he scrambled up with his feet on
the edge. He was silent; he was considering an important move, a plunge
into the world. He wanted to come,--he longed to fly. Outside were
sunshine, sweet air, trees, food,--inside only darkness. The smallest
coaxing would bring him out; but coaxing he was not to have. He must
decide for himself; the impulse must be from within.

The next morning opened with a severe northeast gale.

"It rained, and the wind was never weary."

The birds felt the depressing influence of the day. The robins perched
on the fence, wings hanging, each feather like a bare stick, and not a
sound escaping the throat; and when robins are discouraged, it is dismal
weather indeed. The bluebirds came about, draggled almost beyond
recognition. Even the swallows sailed over silently, their merry chatter
hushed.

But life must go on, whatever the weather; and fearing the young
woodpecker might select this day to make his entry into the big world,
his faithful watcher donned rainy-day costume, and went out to assist in
the operation. The storm did not beat upon his side of the tree, and the
youngster still hung out of his hole in the trunk, calling and crying,
apparently without the least intention of exposing his brand-new
feathers to the rain.

Very early the following morning, before the human world was astir, loud
golden-wing cries, and calls, and "laughs" were heard about the wood.
This abandonment of restraint proclaimed that something had happened;
and so, indeed, I discovered; for in hastening to my post I found an
ominous silence about the oak-tree. The young wise-head, whose struggles
and temptations I had watched so closely, had chosen to go in the
magical morning hours, when the world belongs entirely to birds and
beasts. The home in the wood looked deserted.

I sat down in silence and waited, for I knew the young flicker could not
long be still. Sure enough, I soon heard his cry, but how far off! I
followed it to an oak-tree on the farther edge of the grove. I searched
the tree, and there I saw him, quiet now as I approached, and plainly
full of joy in his freedom and his wings.

I returned to my place, hoping that all had not gone. There must be more
than one, for two had been up to the door, I was sure. I waited. Some
hours later, the parents came to their home in the wood, one after the
other. Back one alighted beside the door, glanced in, in a casual way,
but did not put the head in, and then