“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.