They are always there. I heard of them through the kindness of a stranger, on the 26th of June. His letter reached me (in Boston) at two o’clock in the afternoon, and at half-past three I was admiring the birds. It cannot be said that they welcomed my attentions. From that day to this they have treated me as an intruder. “You have stayed long enough.” “We are not at home to-day.” “Come now, old inquisitive, go about your business.” Things like these they repeat to me by the half hour. Then, in audible asides, they confide to each other what they think of me. “Watch him,” says one at last. “I must be off now after a few grubs.” And away she goes, while her mate continues to inform me that I am a busybody, a meddler in other birds’ matters, a common nuisance, a duffer, and everything else that is disreputable. All this is unpleasant. I feel as I imagine a baseball umpire feels when the players call him a “gump” and the crowd yells “robber;” but like the umpire, I bear it meekly and hold my ground. A good conscience is a strong support. In sober truth I have been scrupulously careful of the birds’ feelings; or, if not of their feelings, at least of their safety. I began, indeed, by being almost ludicrously careful. The nest was a precious secret, I thought. I must guard it as a miser guards his treasure. So, whenever a foot-passenger happened along the highway at my back, I made pretense of being concerned with anything in the world rather than with that lamp-post of a stump. What was Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba? I pretty soon learned, however, that such precautions were unnecessary. The whole town, or at least the whole neighborhood, was aware of the birds’ presence. Every school-teacher in the city, one man told me, had been there with his or her pupils to see them. So popular is ornithology in these modern days. He had seen thirty or forty persons about the place at once, he said, all on the same errand. “Look at the bank there,” he added. “They have worn it smooth by sitting on it.” I have not been fortunate enough to assist at any such interesting “function,” but I have had plenty of evidence to prove the truth of what I said just now--that the birds and their nest have become matters of common knowledge. On my third visit, just as I was ready to come away, a boy turned the corner on a bicycle, holding his younger sister in front of him. “Are they here?” he inquired as he dismounted. “Who?” said I. “The red-headed woodpeckers,” he answered.