Peter Somebody and the Woodpecker’s Nest.
The following story is sent to us by one who affirms that he knew Peter in his boyhood—and he assures us that this story is true, every word of it.
Peter Somebody was the companion of my youth, and at an early period of his boyhood commenced that series of observations in the field of nature which has enabled him in maturer years to tell so many stories about the objects of nature.
Almost from his infancy, he delighted in being out of doors. He loved to wander through the fields—in the forests—through the wild and uncultivated glen—to climb the mountain’s top and walk along the giddy precipice.
Nor were these idle rambles. In the course of them he made himself acquainted with birds and insects and creeping things—whatever was rare and singular engaged his attention, but most of all was he pleased with those plans which led to adventure. In his excursions he was often attended by several other boys, belonging to the neighborhood, of whom he was always the leader—the first to move forward and the last to get tired out. It may well be said of him, what was said of another choice spirit:
“If e’er a pleasant mischief sprung to view,
At once o’er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.”
Bird-hunting and egg-gathering were among the favorite sports of our boyhood. Often we collected quite a quantity of eggs, thus robbing the poor birds of their rightful property, and a proper place for which it had cost them much labor to provide. I do not mention this because I now approve of the practice, but for the purpose, among other things, of expressing my regret for the example which I then set. It is considered, ofte-times, great sport by unthinking boys, but what is sport to them is the source of sorrow and mourning to the harmless beings, whose labors and hopes they thus destroy.
But to my story. We were wont, as I said, to make frequent excursions after eggs. Those of the red-headed woodpecker were sought for with peculiar zeal, not only on account of their singular beauty, but from the great number which the nest of that bird often contains.
This nest is generally a hollow place in the trunk or limb of a tree, formed by the natural process of decay, or dug out by the perseverance of the bird itself. The manner in which it digs its hole is quite worthy of notice. First, it digs horizontally into the body of the tree for five or six inches, and then downwards in a sloping direction, for about a foot.
One day, I well recollect that Peter and myself, with another companion, were abroad in chase of adventure, when suddenly a woodpecker was seen flying round a tree, apparently in great distress. Its hole was some distance up the tree. The cause of its distress was unsuspected—but Peter, ever ready for investigation, threw down his coat and prepared to ascertain the cause. Access to the hole was quite difficult, and his companion, with myself, seriously remonstrated against the undertaking.
“Not so easily discouraged as all that,” said Peter. “What would you chicken-hearts do on the mast in a gale of wind?—come, give us a boost, and I’ll soon see what is the cause of the red-headed gentleman’s distress.” “May be,” said Seth, (our companion, who never went by any other name, and who was as fond of a joke as Peter ever was,)—“may be, his wife is sick.”
“Well,” replied Peter, “here the doctor comes”—and with this he began his upward progress; Seth and myself tugging as hard to raise him as sailors would to raise a fast anchor. I would not intimate, however, that Peter’s climbing powers were by any means small. Once started, whatever difficulties lay in the way, it was all railroad to him. He was therefore soon up the tree, as the saying is, and was busily occupied in making the desired search.
The hole of the woodpecker is often quite small. This, Peter well knew from his former experience. He had therefore stripped up his shirt-sleeve and inserted his bare arm. Seth and myself were at the bottom, eyeing the operation most intently, as in such cases is most common. All at once, Peter uttered a wild sort of exclamation, and for a moment we thought he would come tumbling down.
“Hold on, hold on!” we both at the same time exclaimed, “hold on!”
“I’ve got you,” said Peter; his countenance indicating the grasp with which he had clenched something—at the same time mingled with some discomposure of spirit.
“What is it?” inquired I—“what have you got?”
“Is the old lady sick?” said Seth, in his dry and caustic manner.
All this time, Peter was trying to extract his hand with his clenched booty, and severe was the rake which he gave it, before he succeeded. But at length, with a sort of desperation, it came, and with it a hideous black snake! Fortunately he had seized it in the precise part which he could have wished—a little below the throat. Such had been his grasp that the mouth of the snake was wide open, and he looked as wildly and in as much of an agony as Sam Patch did in his leap from the Genesee falls.
Peter hurled the snake to the ground, where he soon followed. I imagine that he looked for once somewhat pale, but his usual flush again returned, and he was soon ready for fresh adventure.
George Washington.—When George Washington, afterwards the president of America, was about six years of age, some one made him a present of a hatchet, of which being, like most children, immoderately fond, he went about chopping everything that came in his way; and going into the garden, he unluckily tried its edge on an English cherry tree, which he barked so terribly, as to leave little hope of its recovery.
The next morning, his father saw the tree, which was a great favorite, in that condition, and inquired who had done this mischief, declaring he would not have taken five guineas for the tree; but nobody could inform him. Presently after, George came, with the hatchet in his hand, into the place where his father was, who immediately suspected him to be the culprit.
“George,” said the old gentleman, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?” The child hesitated for a moment, and then nobly replied, “I can’t tell a lie, pa; you know I can’t tell a lie; I did cut it with my hatchet.” “Run to my arms, my boy,” exclaimed his father, “run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree, for you have paid me for it, a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism is, my son, of more worth than a thousand cherry trees, if blossomed with silver, or bearing fruits of gold!”