These were not the only hawks of the valley. Once, seeing one of the large Buteos winging its way with nesting sticks hanging from its claws, I turned Canello into the field after it, following till it lit in the top of a high sycamore. The pair were both gathering material. Sometimes they flew with the twigs in their claws; sometimes in their bills; now they would fly directly to the nest, again circle around the tree before alighting. When one was at work, the other sometimes flew up and soared so high in the sky he looked no larger than a sparrow hawk. In swooping to the ground suddenly, the hawks would hollow in their backs, stick up their tails, drop their legs for ballast, and so let themselves come to earth. While one of the birds was peacefully gathering sticks, two blackbirds attacked it, apparently on general grounds, because it belonged to a family that had been traduced since history began. To tell the honest truth, I trembled a little myself at thought of what might happen to some of my small tenants, though I reassured myself by remembering that the facts prove the maligned hawks much more likely to eat gophers than birds.
In the back of the stub occupied by one of the sparrow hawks it was a pleasure to find a flicker excavating its nest. Planting its claws firmly in the hole with tail braced against the bark, the bird leaned forward, thrusting its head in, over and again, as if feeding young. It used its feet as a pivot, and swung itself in, farther and farther, as it worked. Such gymnastics took strong feet, for the bird raised itself by them each time. It worked like an automatic toy wound up for the performance. When tired, the flicker hopped up on a branch and vented its feelings by shouting _if-if-if-if-if-if-if_, after which it quietly returned to work. The wood was so soft that the excavating made almost no noise, but it was easy to see what was going on, for the carpenter simply drew back its head and tossed out the glistening chips for all the world to see. At the end of a week the flicker was working so far down in its excavation that only the tip of its tail stuck out of the door.
The nest of another Colaptes, I found by accident--a fresh chip dropped from mid-air upon my riding skirt. Just then Canello gave a stentorian sneeze and the bird came to her window to look down. She did not object to us, and was loath to turn back inside the dark hole--such a close stuffy place--when outside there were the rich green leaves of the tree, the sweet breath of the hayfield and the gentle breeze just springing up; all the warmth and sunshine and fragrance of the fields. How could she ever leave to go below? Perhaps she bethought her that soon the dark hole would be a home ringing with the voices of her little ones; at all events, she quickly turned and disappeared in her nest.