Poem: The Downy Woodpecker

Photo of Downy Woodpecker by Mic McCarty.

“The Downy Woodpecker”

From Bird Stories from Burroughs, Gutenberg Project release date July 12, 2008, eBook #26046, Copyright 1871

Downy came and dwelt with me,

 Taught me hermit lore;

Drilled his cell in oaken tree

 Near my cabin door.

Architect of his own home

  In the forest dim,

Carving its inverted dome

  In a dozy limb.

Carved it deep and shaped it true

  With his little bill;

Took no thought about the view,

  Whether dale or hill.

Shook the chips upon the ground,

  Careless who might see.

Hark! his hatchet's muffled sound

  Hewing in the tree.

Round his door as compass-mark,

 True and smooth his wall;

Just a shadow on the bark

 Points you to his hall.

Downy leads a hermit life

  All the winter through;

Free his days from jar and strife,

  And his cares are few.

Waking up the frozen woods,

  Shaking down the snows;

Many trees of many moods

  Echo to his blows.

When the storms of winter rage,

  Be it night or day,

Then I know my little page

  Sleeps the time away.

Downy's stores are in the trees,

  Egg and ant and grub;

Juicy tidbits, rich as cheese,

  Hid in stump and stub.

Rat-tat-tat his chisel goes,

  Cutting out his prey;

Every boring insect knows

  When he comes its way.

Always rapping at their doors,

  Never welcome he;

All his kind, they vote, are bores,

  Whom they dread to see.

Why does Downy live alone

  In his snug retreat?

Has he found that near the bone

  Is the sweetest meat?

Birdie craved another fate

  When the spring had come;

Advertised him for a mate

  On his dry-limb drum.

Drummed her up and drew her near,

  In the April morn,

Till she owned him for her dear

  In his state forlorn.

Now he shirks all family cares,

  This I must confess;

Quite absorbed in self affairs

  In the season's stress.

We are neighbors well agreed

  Of a common lot;

Peace and love our only creed

  In this charmed spot.

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