I am sorry to tell you that the handsome blue jay is very cruel to other birds. He often tears up their nests, breaks their eggs, or kills their little ones, for the mere sake of doing it. The eggs of smaller birds, he carries to his own nestlings for food. I knew a lady who saw a jay bring three small eggs to his nest. He carried them in his bill. One summer, a pair of woodpeckers built in a tall flag-pole near my house. They had cut out a nice round hole in the pole, and dug a deep place for a nest. Several times each day the father-bird took his turn on the nest, while the mother-bird went off to a swamp to get food. It was curious to watch the nest-cleaning each night. The birds took up refuse from the nest in their claws, and flew off some distance before they dropped it. When the little birds came from the shell, the old ones were very busy, going and coming several times each hour, with food. It was funny to see them at night-fall. The father-bird took his place, clinging high up on the pole, like a watchman on a tower, to take a final look, and see if all was right. The mother-bird, at the same time, put her handsome head out of the hole, and stretched her neck, as if to take a look from her window before she went to bed. When the birds were fledged, there was a grand time teaching them to fly. They were taken to a roof near by, where they sprawled about. Then they would be coaxed to make a little flight. The parents flew low and slowly before them. Great was the joy, if one of the little things flew a few yards. The old birds seemed to think that they had never before seen quite such nice flying! Then the father-bird stood proudly before them, to give them a lesson in drumming, that is, in pecking at wood, to break it up, to find grubs or insects hidden in it. He seemed to say, “Look at me!” Then he braced his feet and tail,[28] held his head on one side, and gave a number of swift, strong blows on my porch roof. He would drum, and then look at the little ones to imitate him. Then they flew over the way, and the father seemed to say, “Now for another lesson in drumming!” At it he went. But that house had a _tin roof_. He could not make the splinters fly! He tried again. It was of no use. Then he looked much surprised. He eyed the roof, and tried once more. The little birds looked on. But the father-bird failed again. Instead of a long, deep roll of sound, there was only a sharp rattle; no chips, no grubs! He seemed much ashamed. His wings and his tail drooped. Away he flew to the pole, and sat there very sad. He seemed to be thinking how much better houses grew when he was young! The hole of these birds, in the pole, was tinned over after they left. They returned next year, and cut a hole lower down. That was covered with tin in the fall. Next spring, they came back, and cut a hole higher up. They did this for five years. Finally the pole had to be taken down as dangerous, it was so cut up.