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 Future Imperfect
Philip K. Dick at the Movies

Jason P. Vest
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Vest, Jason P., 1972–

Future imperfect : Philip K. Dick at the movies / Jason P. Vest.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN-13: 978–0–275–99171–5 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0–275–99171–7 (alk. paper)
1. Dick, Philip K.—Film and video adaptations. 2. Science fiction films—History and criticism.
I. Title.
PS3554.I3Z915 2007
791.43’6—dc22 2007016355
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available.
Copyright © 2007 by Jason P. Vest.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be
reproduced, by any process or technique, without the
express written consent of the publisher.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007016355
ISBN-13: 978–0–275–99171–5
ISBN-10: 0–275–99171–7
First published in 2007
Praeger Publishers, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881
An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc.
www.praeger.com
Printed in the United States of America

The paper used in this book complies with the

Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National
Information Standards Organization (Z39.48-1984).
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 To my mother, Delores Vest, for keeping me honest
To my sisters, Katherine Driesen and Cynthia Tennison, for keeping
me humble
and
To the love of my life, Patricia Thomas, for keeping me happy
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix
Introduction The Man in the High Castle: Philip K. Dick xi
and the Movies
Chapter 1 More Human than Human: Blade Runner 1
Chapter 2 Memory Prime: Total Recall 29
Chapter 3 Unburdening the Soul: Confessions d’un Barjo 57
Chapter 4 Future War: Screamers 75
Chapter 5 Identity Theft: Impostor 97
Chapter 6 Future Crime: Minority Report 115
Chapter 7 Money in the Bank: Paycheck 143
Chapter 8 Schizophrenia on Demand: A Scanner Darkly 155
Conclusion Roll Credits: The Films of Philip K. Dick 175
Notes 181
Bibliography 195
Films Cited 203
Index 209
 Acknowledgments

This book could not have been written without the enthusiasm, encourage-
ment, and expertise of my editor, Daniel Harmon. His insight has enriched
this project in more ways than I can count. Dan has been the book’s greatest
champion and its greatest critic, providing invaluable assistance at every junc-
ture. His advice and friendship are greatly appreciated.
This study compares the film adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s fiction to their
literary sources. Dick was one of twentieth-century America’s best novelists,
and his writing is a valuable contribution to American literature. Quoting
his words is crucial to this project’s success. All citations of Dick’s fiction
are reprinted by permission of the Philip K. Dick Trust and its agents, Scovil
Chichak Galen Literary Agency, Inc.
My colleagues have offered valuable guidance during this book’s long ges-
tation. I am especially grateful to Gerald Early, of Washington University’s
Center for the Humanities, for mentoring my professional development; to
Guinn Batten, of Washington University’s Department of English and
American Literature, for encouraging my interest in Dick’s fiction; and to
Christopher Schreiner, of the University of Guam’s Division of English and
Applied Linguistics, for supporting my research during an exceptionally hec-
tic academic year.
My family and friends have exhibited more patience than one person has a
right to expect. This project would not have been possible without their for-
bearance or their humor.
Thank you all.
 Introduction
The Man in the High Castle:
Philip K. Dick and the Movies

I.
Lawrence Sutin makes a surprising statement in the preface to the 2005 reis-
sue of Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick, his excellent biography of
Philip K. Dick’s authorial career. Sutin attributes Dick’s growing popularity
within American culture to two major factors: Dick’s authorial talent, the
appreciation of which has steadily increased since his death in 1982, and
‘‘the ongoing adaptation of Dick’s works into movies at an astonishing rate
exceeded only by Stephen King.’’1 The second explanation, no matter how
breathlessly Sutin phrases it, is hardly surprising when we consider the mil-
lions of people who have seen at least one of the eight films based on Dick’s
novels and short stories: Blade Runner (1982), Total Recall (1990), Confes-
sions d’un Barjo (1992), Screamers (1995), Impostor (2002), Minority Report
(2002), Paycheck (2003), and A Scanner Darkly (2006). Sutin also wryly
notes that film adaptations of Dick’s work continue to be produced despite
the fact that the author (unlike the prolific King) has been dead for more than
twenty years. This fact offers even less reason for astonishment. Cinematic
versions of Shakespeare’s plays, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and Vladimir
Nabokov’s Lolita have been filmed long after their authors’ deaths, while
the list of Hollywood adaptations of deceased writers’ fiction is so extensive
that it could fill an encyclopedia.
xii INTRODUCTION

Sutin’s unforgiving judgment of the cinematic adaptations of Dick’s fic-

tion, however, is surprising. He states, in uncommonly harsh language, that
‘‘the movies made from Dick’s works, with the exception of the first of them,
Blade Runner (1982), have been dreadful.’’ 2 This comment brooks no
debate. The film adaptations of Dick’s fiction, in Sutin’s opinion, are (with
one exception) terrible.
Sutin is an excellent writer. His book, originally published in 1989, has
become the standard biography of Dick because it productively examines
how Dick’s complicated, fascinating, and difficult existence led him to write
some of the most visionary literature produced by a twentieth-century Ameri-
can author. Sutin’s exhaustive research exposes previously unknown aspects
of Dick’s childhood, debunks myths about Dick’s reputation, and offers lucid
critical assessments of Dick’s fiction. Divine Invasions, in fact, is a model of
scholarly literary biography that scrutinizes the connections between its sub-
ject’s life, work, and art with the skeptical sympathy necessary to revealing
another human being’s intellectual and emotional complexities.
Sutin’s assessment of the Dick film adaptations, by contrast, is wrong-
headed on two fronts. These movies, contrary to Sutin’s contention, have
not been produced at an astonishing pace. In the twenty-five years since Blade
Runner first appeared in movie theatres, only seven other films based on
Dick’s fiction have been released (with an eighth, Next, based on Dick’s
1954 short story ‘‘The Golden Man,’’ scheduled for release in 2007). The
film and television projects adapted from Stephen King’s work occasionally
equal, and sometimes exceed, this number in a single year, while, to take
another well-known example, the quarter century following the first cin-
ematic adaptation of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels (1962’s Dr. No) saw
fourteen additional Bond movies arrive in theatres.
The lengthy development period of nearly all the Dick adaptations has
accustomed Dick’s readers to expect a healthy (sometimes decades-long)
delay between the announcement of a new film based on Dick’s fiction and
its arrival at the local multiplex. The term ‘‘development hell’’ is perfectly tail-
ored for movies based on Dick’s writing because his fiction is so ambiguous
and evocative that translating it into coherent cinematic narrative is an unen-
viable challenge for film professionals. Dick’s visions of a heavily industrial-
ized (and often postapocalyptic) future require tremendous skill to visualize,
while assembling the talent necessary to mounting complex movies like Blade
Runner, Total Recall, and Minority Report in an industry as mercurial as film-
making can take far more time than actual production.
Sutin’s error in evaluating the movies based on Dick’s work is not limited
to misstatements about the speed at which they have been produced. His
blanket generalization about their quality betrays serious inattention to each
film’s visual, narrative, and symbolic complexity. Even John Woo’s Paycheck,
the weakest of the eight films profiled in this book, includes enough worth-
while moments to qualify as an intriguing effort at transforming Dick’s
INTRODUCTION xiii

1953 short story ‘‘Paycheck’’ into cinematic narrative. Paycheck ultimately

disappoints the viewer by not fulfilling the greatness of its own premise,
thereby failing to become an insightful adaptation of Dick’s writing. Woo’s
movie is not, however, as dreadful as Sutin implies. Neither are the two Dick
adaptations that were most unsympathetically reviewed at the time of their
release: Screamers and Impostor. These films, while far from perfect, are better
than their critics suggest. Neither is an outright failure.
Minority Report and A Scanner Darkly, by contrast, are excellent films that
improve with each viewing. Sutin did not have the opportunity to see Scanner
before writing his preface (in June 2005), but his dismissal of Minority Report
raises serious doubts about his understanding of the cinematic adaptations of
Dick’s work. Minority Report, like Blade Runner, is a movie that takes Dick’s
original material seriously; that uses the author’s fiction as a launching pad for
searching social, political, and economic commentary about American cul-
ture; and that offers its audience a story line and characters with intellectual
and emotional depth. Pronouncing it dreadful ignores the achievement of
Minority Report’s director (Steven Spielberg), screenwriters (Jon Cohen and
Scott Frank), and production team.
Sutin, by refusing to examine the Dick adaptations in detail, is far too
cavalier in his evaluation of these films. His task, of course, is to write a short
preface for a new edition of Dick’s biography, not rigorous film criticism. As
such, it is even more unfortunate that Sutin does not resist the tendency of
bibliophiles to perpetuate an easy, cheap, and unreflective view of film adapta-
tion that has become so ingrained in American culture that it now qualifies as
a mindless cliché: the book is always better than the movie. The notion that
words are superior to images not only is rampant in some quarters of the
American literary academy, but has also worked its way into the popular mind
so effectively that, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, this idea has
the patina of unassailable truth.
This book assesses the quality of the first eight film adaptations of Dick’s
fiction in light of their literary sources. It does not, however, assume that
words (meaning short stories and novels) are superior to images (meaning
films). Neither does it reverse this formulation to contend that movies are
better than books. Arguments about the superiority of one medium over
another, like arguments about the superiority of one literary genre over
another, have become (despite vigorous scholarly debate) tiresome, tenuous,
and tendentious. They generally resemble schoolyard brawls in which the
proponents of one form (such as literature) deride enthusiasts of the other
form (such as movies) with little understanding of the aesthetic possibilities,
parameters, and prospects of either form. Such disputes, beyond their occa-
sionally childish character, are generally too tedious to be interesting.
This book attempts to avoid such errors. It considers the cinematic adapta-
tions of Dick’s work in relation to their literary sources by offering critical
readings that supplement the current understanding of how Dick has
xiv INTRODUCTION

profoundly influenced American popular culture. Sutin is correct to note that

the movies made from Dick’s fiction have played a large role in promoting the
author’s popularity. With the exception of Confessions d’un Barjo, these films
have also carved out a specific niche within American SF (science fiction) cin-
ema that has exerted an acute, even overwhelming power over how we imag-
ine the future will look, feel, and operate—in short, how the future will be.
This influence is a welcome one for films adapted from the fiction of a writer
unjustly labeled as a hack during much of his lifetime, although it also
obscures the debt that these movies owe to their literary sources, even when
the films depart wildly from Dick’s original material.
The eight films profiled here include a few masterpieces, a few noble
efforts, and one clunker. Each movie is an intriguing attempt to translate into
cinematic language Dick’s unique, unmistakable, and undeniable paranoia
about the stability of human identity and the value of human relationships
in a world that is careening out of control. These films do not always succeed,
but each one includes moments that are recognizably Dickian in their ambi-
guity, transience, and haunting complexity. For this reason, among many
others, they merit respectful consideration.

II.
Philip K. Dick, as his letters, interviews, and essays make clear, enjoyed film
and television. He frequently refers to movies and television during the
extended conversations with Gregg Rickman that are transcribed in the book
In His Own Words, as well as during his long interview sessions with Gwen
Lee that are available in What If Our World Is Their Heaven?: The Final Con-
versations of Philip K. Dick. Dick even tried his hand at scriptwriting during
the 1960s and 1970s, completing story treatments for an episode of Larry
Cohen’s weekly television series The Invaders3 and for Bruce Geller’s Mission:
Impossible4 in 1967, only to have them rejected. Dick also drafted a 1967 pro-
posal for an untitled television series, set in ‘‘the gray, foggy landscape of
Heaven,’’5 that describes the adventures of employees of We Are Watching
You, Inc., ‘‘a small outfit among several giants,’’ whose ‘‘record of bailing
Earthlings out of jams is virtually 100 percent.. . .’’6 This premise, as fleshed
out by Dick, would have made a delightful weekly series, with intriguing
characters, witty concepts, and satirical stories. As Brian J. Robb points out
in Counterfeit Worlds: Philip K. Dick on Film, Dick’s proposal about heavenly
personages correcting earthly misfortunes bears a striking resemblance to
some aspects of Donald P. Bellisario’s time-travel series Quantum Leap
(1989–1993), although it has even greater similarities (in premise rather than
tone) to Michael Landon’s Highway to Heaven (1984–1989) and John
Masius’s Touched by an Angel (1994–2003).
In 1974, French filmmaker Jean-Pierre Gorin contracted Dick to write a
screenplay based on the author’s 1969 novel Ubik. Dick, excited by the
INTRODUCTION xv

opportunity, completed a draft in only three weeks. Gorin, who was unable to
secure financing for the project, was overwhelmed by the quality of what he
describes as Dick’s unfilmable script:

This is something that cannot be a film, although it is great on its own terms. It
was a very Philip K. Dick adaptation of Philip K. Dick! [It was] very talkative,
and [did] not have very much to do with how a movie could be done. I found
myself both delighted at having that piece of work, and totally terrified about
what I was going to do with it.. . . 7

The film never materialized, although Dick’s faithful adaptation of Ubik exists
in a limited edition (and now rare) book published by Corroboree Press.
Dick also admired movies that he believed achieved the status of art. The
first film he probably saw was Lewis Milestone’s 1930 adaptation of Erich
Maria Remarque’s German novel All Quiet on the Western Front.8 During
the 1950s, Dick and his second wife, Kleo Apostolides, attended movies
whenever they could afford them. Dick was also impressed by Nicholas
Roeg’s 1976 film The Man Who Fell to Earth and Robert Altman’s 1977 film
3 Women, telling interviewer Rickman, about 3 Women, ‘‘I liked that a lot.
Unbelievable.’’9
Dick’s most famous brush with filmmaking is his complicated reaction to
the production of Blade Runner. The author, who in 1968 compiled a fasci-
nating document titled ‘‘Notes on Do Android Dream of Electric Sheep?’’ for
filmmaker Bertram Berman, who had purchased an option on the just-
released novel, was initially pessimistic about the project (directed by Ridley
Scott), going so far as to publish an article titled ‘‘Universe Makers. . .and
Breakers’’ in the February 15–March 28, 1981, edition of SelecTV Guide,
his cable television company’s newsletter, that sarcastically dismisses an early
version of Blade Runner’s screenplay: ‘‘It was terrific. It bore no relation to
the book. . . .What my story will become is one titanic lurid collision of
androids being blown up, androids killing humans, general confusion and
murder, all very exciting to watch. Makes my book seem dull by compari-
son.’’10 Dick’s attitude changed, however, when, in December 1981, he
had the opportunity to view twenty minutes of special effects footage and to
talk with director Ridley Scott. Dick was also pleased by a later screenplay
draft that he read, leading him to embrace Blade Runner as an excellent cin-
ematic adaptation of his original novel. Dick, in fact, told interviewer Gwen
Lee less than two months before his death on March 2, 1982, that ‘‘the open-
ing [sequence of Blade Runner] is simply the most stupendous thing I have
ever seen in the way of a film. It’s simply unbelievable.’’11 Dick’s death, which
occurred less than four months before Blade Runner’s June 25, 1982, pre-
miere, is therefore one of the saddest ironies of the film’s production saga.
Dick never lived to see the movie that is now considered a towering achieve-
ment in American SF cinema.
xvi INTRODUCTION

This tragedy naturally prompts readers of Dick’s fiction to wonder how the
author would have judged the movies that came after Blade Runner. This
curiosity can never be answered, for the simple reason that all attempts to
extrapolate Dick’s opinions of Total Recall, Screamers, or Minority Report
based on his reaction to an incomplete viewing of Blade Runner are pure
guesswork. Dick’s enthusiasm for film and television, however, assures us that
he would have been as avid a viewer of these adaptations as any other member
of the moviegoing public. It seems likely that Dick would have demanded
more involvement in the later films’ production than he was permitted for
Blade Runner, although we cannot be certain of this prediction since Dick,
who commented in 1980 that ‘‘You would have to kill me and prop me up
in the seat of my car with a smile painted on my face to get me to go near
Hollywood,’’12 might have been content to watch each film go forward from
the comfortable remove of his Fullerton, California, home. If so, Dick would
have resembled Hawthorne Abendsen, the title character of the author’s
1962 novel The Man in the High Castle, who absents himself from the
goings-on of the world around him. Dick, however, was one of the least pre-
tentious American novelists of the twentieth century, so it is equally probable
that he would have welcomed the opportunity to advise filmmakers on how
to visualize his richly imaginative fiction. The misfortune for lovers of Dick’s
writing is that he did not live to see, and enjoy, how strongly his work has
influenced American SF cinema.

III.
This book evaluates the quality of Blade Runner, Total Recall, Confessions
d’un Barjo, Screamers, Impostor, Minority Report, Paycheck, and A Scanner
Darkly in relation to the short stories or novels that inspired them. As such,
the book is a hybrid text that combines literary analysis and film criticism to
examine how the differences between written fiction and cinematic narrative
allow each adaptation’s production team to transfer Dick’s story into a visual
medium.
This argument does not presume that Dick’s written fiction is superior,
better, or higher than the motion pictures adapted from that fiction merely
because Dick employs words to tell his stories, while the films employ moving
images. The presumption that words are better than images and books are
superior to films participates in a tradition of intellectual arrogance that dis-
misses the value of cinema as a commercialized form of mass entertainment
that cannot achieve the artistic heights of novels and short stories. As James
Naremore notes in his thoughtful introduction to one of the best academic
anthologies about this subject (simply titled Film Adaptation), a counter-
vailing scholarly attitude toward adaptation acknowledges the intellectual
legitimacy of film adaptation as an artistic process that tries to ‘‘‘metamor-
phose’ novels into another medium that has its own formal or narratological
INTRODUCTION xvii

possibilities.’’13 This jejune perspective, Naremore implies, is a backhanded

compliment that privileges the written word over the moving image by sug-
gesting that cinema may be a separate medium into which written fiction
can be translated, but that movies remain secondary to the printed word’s pri-
macy. Naremore goes on to identify why conceptualizing film adaptation as
the translation of a literary work is an impoverished metaphor: ‘‘The problem
with most writing about adaptation as translation is that it tends to valorize
the literary canon and essentialize the nature of cinema.’’14
Naremore’s argument is far more complex than this brief synopsis allows,
but his fundamental point is an intelligent response to the all-too-common
supposition that cinematic adaptations must closely reproduce their literary
sources in order to be successful, as well as this idea’s converse: film adapta-
tions that do not closely reproduce their sources are unsuccessful or, at the
very least, artistically deficient.
This book does not share this assumption. It also does not rigorously pon-
der the issues of film or literary theory, but rather considers the eight film
adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s fiction to be intriguing cinematic narratives
whose value is not dependent upon their fidelity to their literary sources. Each
chapter discusses the differences and similarities between the profiled movie
and the short story or novel that inspired it, not as an exercise in demonstrat-
ing the film’s insufficiency, but as a method of exposing how the transition
from page to screen requires inevitable changes that make each adaptation a
unique (although not always successful) work of art. The best adaptations of
Dick’s work—Blade Runner, Confessions d’un Barjo, Minority Report, and
A Scanner Darkly—demonstrate not only that his authorial inventiveness
transfers to the screen but also that creative filmmakers can extrapolate his fic-
tion into cinematic stories that respond to the pressing social, political, and
economic issues of their day. These movies are also entertaining films that
inventively dramatize intellectual concepts, future societies, advanced tech-
nology, and human relationships. Finally, they offer unconventional story
lines, images, and personalities that frequently depart from the standard
expectations of conventional Hollywood movies.
The eight films discussed here all include worthwhile insights into human
behavior. Blade Runner and Minority Report are masterpieces that demon-
strate how technological advancement and political oppression result in
unwelcome social developments, while A Scanner Darkly nearly achieves the
quality, complexity, and emotional maturity of these two films by focusing
on the private lives of drug addicts. Confessions d’un Barjo offers a satirical
portrait of marital tension that becomes a charming evocation of family dys-
function. Impostor, despite its poor reviews, is a nightmarish dramatization
of how tenuous human identity becomes when institutional bureaucracy
causes people to doubt the basis of their own personality. Total Recall con-
fronts the ambiguity of human identity in a world where memories have
become commodities that can be erased, altered, and fabricated. Screamers
xviii INTRODUCTION

presents an unpleasant political parable about the dangers of unchecked mili-

tarism and the hazards of advanced weaponry. Only Paycheck is an uninterest-
ing, unaccomplished, and finally uninspiring film, although it offers enough
interesting moments to qualify as movie that might have achieved greatness
had its makers taken more time and care with its story.
These cinematic adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s fiction, even those that do
not achieve the mastery of Blade Runner, Confessions d’un Barjo, Minority
Report, and A Scanner Darkly, are far from schlock SF cinema. They are in-
triguing, sometimes potent, and frequently fearful extrapolations of how
American society might develop in future decades. These movies, because of
their unconventional settings and unusual stories, cannot appeal to all audi-
ence members. They can, however, allow the critical reader of Dick’s fiction
to think about his ideas, imagery, and themes in fresh new ways. The film
adaptations of Dick’s work, at their best, are vivid reminders of how cinematic
narrative can powerfully affect its viewer. They stand apart from Dick’s fiction
even as they descend from it. This complicated lineage, as well as its visual,
narrative, and thematic intricacies, is the subject of this book.
 CHAPTER 1

More Human than Human:

Blade Runner

I.
After editor Terry Rawlings completed his first assembly of Blade Runner’s
footage, in July 1981, he sat down with the film’s director, Ridley Scott, to
screen the result. Scott and Rawlings were so absorbed by the images
unfolding before them that they forgot to speak. ‘‘Then, when the film
finished and the lights came up,’’ Rawlings later recalled, ‘‘Ridley turned to
me and said, ‘God, it’s marvelous. What the fuck does it all mean?’’’1
Scott’s reaction anticipated the response of audiences, reviewers, and schol-
ars to his complicated, mystifying, and strangely beautiful 1982 film. As the
first Hollywood movie based on Philip K. Dick’s fiction, Scott’s adaptation
of Dick’s equally complicated 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric
Sheep? has achieved mythic status among film critics, cineastes, and SF aficio-
nados. As one of the premier American films of the 1980s, Blade Runner’s
influence on later movies, particularly SF movies, is unquestionable, while
its densely layered visual style has been celebrated by sources as diverse as the
academic journal Critical Inquiry and the news magazine Time.
Few observers would have predicted so momentous an impact when Blade
Runner opened on June 25, 1982. It was merely one of several SF and fantasy
films released that summer. Nicholas Meyer’s Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan,
Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, and John Carpenter’s remake
of The Thing had opened, respectively, on June 4, June 11, and June 25.
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rounded.
Bill dark brown above, the base of the lower mandible yellow, its tip
bluish; iris deep brown; feet flesh-coloured; upper part of the head
and neck smoke-grey; back dusky brown; rump, tail, wing-coverts,
and outer part of the quills bright ferruginous; tips of the coverts
whitish, forming a narrow bar, space from the upper mandible to the
eye pale reddish; ear-coverts chestnut. The ground colour of the
lower parts is white anteriorly, pale greyish behind; the sides of the
neck, the throat, and flanks, marked with triangular spots of
chestnut, which are darker on the hind parts.
Length 7½ inches; extent of wings 10½; bill 5⁄12 along the ridge,
7
⁄12 along the gap; tarsus 8⁄12, middle toe 1.

Adult Female. Plate CVIII. Fig. 2.

The Female differs little from the Male, the tints being merely
somewhat fainter. Length 7½ inches.
 THE SAVANNAH FINCH.

Fringilla Savanna, Wils.

PLATE CIX. Male and Female.

This species is one of the most abundant of our Finches. It is also

one of the hardiest, standing the winter of our Middle Districts,
ranging as far north as Labrador, and crowding our old fields and
open woods of the south, from October to April. It is nearly allied to
the Yellow-Winged Sparrow and Henslow's Bunting, but differs from
both in many important particulars.
It confines itself principally to the ground, where it runs with
extreme agility, lowering its body as if to evade your view, and when
in danger hiding as closely as a mouse, nay, seldom taking to wing,
unless much alarmed or suddenly surprised. It is fondest of dry,
rather elevated situations, not very distant from the sea shore, and
although it travels much, I have never found one in deep woods.
During winter it associates with the Field Sparrow and Bay-winged
Sparrow, and with these it is often seen in open plains of great
extent, scantily covered with tall grasses or low clumps of trees and
briars. Regardless of man, it approaches the house, frequents the
garden, and alights on low buildings with as little concern as if in the
most retired places.
It migrates by day, when it suffers from the attacks of the Marsh,
the Pigeon and the Sharp-shinned Hawks, and rests on the ground
by night, when it is liable to be preyed upon by the insidious Minx.
Its flight, although rather irregular, is considerably protracted, for it
crosses I believe without resting the broad expanse of the Gulf of St
Lawrence. In June 1833, I found it gradually moving northward as I
advanced towards the country of Labrador; and although a great
number tarry and breed in all intermediate places from Maryland to
that dreary region, I saw them there in abundance.
The nest of the Savannah Finch is placed on the ground at the foot
of a tuft of rank grass, or of a low bush. It is formed of dry grasses,
and is imbedded in the soil, or among the grass, the inner part being
finished with straw and blades of a finer texture. The eggs, from
four to six in number, are of a pale bluish colour, softly mottled with
purplish-brown. Some eggs have a broadish circle of these spots
near the large end, while the extremity itself is without any
markings. It generally breeds twice every season in the Middle
States, but never more than once to the eastward of Massachusetts.
While searching for the nests of this and many other species, I
observed that the artifices used by the female to draw intruders
away, are seldom if ever practised until after incubation has
commenced.
Although this little Finch cannot be said to have a song, it is yet
continually pouring out its notes. You see it perched on a fence rail,
the top of a stone, or a tall grass or bush, mimicking as it were the
sounds of the Common Cricket. Indeed, when out of sight of the
performer, one might readily imagine it was that insect he heard.
During winter, it now and then repeats a cheep, which, although
more sonorous, is not more musical. In spring, when disturbed and
forced from its perch, it flies quite low over the ground in a whirring
manner, and re-alights as soon as an opportunity offers.
Like all the other land-birds that resort to Labrador in summer, it
returns from that country early in September.

Fringilla Savanna, Bonaparte, Synops. of Birds of the United States, p. 109.

 Savannah Finch, Fringilla Savanna, Wils. Amer. Ornith. vol. iv. p. 72. Pl. 34. fig.
4, Male; and vol. iii. p. 55. Pl. 22. fig. 3, Female.—Nuttall, Manual, vol. i. p.
489.

Adult Male. Plate CIX. Fig. 1.

Bill short, conical, acute; upper mandible straight in its dorsal
outline, rounded on the sides, as is the lower, which has the edges
sharp and inflected; the gap line straight, not extending to beneath
the eye. Nostrils basal, roundish, open, concealed by the feathers.
Head rather large. Neck short. Legs of moderate length, slender;
tarsus longer than the middle toe, covered anteriorly with a few
longish scutella; toes scutellate above, free, the lateral ones nearly
equal; claws slender, compressed, acute, slightly arched; that of the
hind toe a little larger.
Plumage soft and blended. Wings shortish, curved, rounded, the
third and fourth quills longest. Tail short, emarginate.
Bill pale-brown beneath, dusky above. Iris brown. Feet light flesh-
colour. Cheeks and space over the eye light citron-yellow. The
general colour of the plumage above is pale reddish-brown, spotted
with brownish-black, the edges of the feathers being of the former
colour. The lower parts are white, the breast marked with small deep
brown spots, the sides with long streaks of the same.
Length 5½ inches; extent of wings 8½; bill along the ridge 5⁄12,
along the gap 6⁄12; tarsus 10⁄12.

Adult Female. Plate CIX. Fig. 2.

The Female resembles the Male, the tints of the plumage being
merely a little lighter.
Length 5½ inches; extent of wings 8½.
 The Indian Pink-root or Worm-grass.

Spigelia marilandica, Pursh, Fl. Amer. Sept. vol. i. p. 139.—Pentandria Monogynia,

Linn. Apocyneæ, Juss. Fig. 1. of the Plate.

Stem tetragonal, all the leaves opposite, ovate, acuminate.

Perennial. This plant grows in damp meadows, along rivulets, and
even in the depth of the woods. It is abundant in Kentucky, as well
as on the eastern ranges of the Alleghany Mountains, even to the
vicinity of the Atlantic. Its rich carmine flowers have no scent.

Phlox aristata, Mich. Fl. Amer. vol. i. p. 144.—Pursh, Fl. Amer. Sept. vol. i. p.
150.—Pentandria Monogynia, Linn. Polemonia, Juss. Fig. 2. of the Plate.
See vol. i. p. 361.
 THE HOODED WARBLER.

Sylvia mitrata, Lath.

PLATE CX. Male and Female.

In many parts of our woods, the traveller, as he proceeds, cannot

help stopping to admire the peaceful repose that spreads its pleasing
charm on all around. The tall trees are garlanded with climbing
plants, which have entwined their slender stems around them,
creeping up the crevices of the deeply furrowed bark, and vying with
each other in throwing forth the most graceful festoons, to break the
straight lines of the trunks which support them; while here and there
from the taller branches, numberless grape-vines hang in waving
clusters, or stretch across from tree to tree. The underwood shoots
out its branches, as if jealous of the noble growth of the larger
stems, and each flowering shrub or plant displays its blossoms, to
tempt the stranger to rest a while, and enjoy the beauty of their
tints, or refresh his nerves with their rich odours. Reader, add to this
scene the pure waters of a rivulet, and you may have an idea of the
places in which you will find the Hooded Warbler.
The Southern and Western States are those to which this beautiful
bird gives a preference. It abounds in Louisiana, along the
Mississippi, and by the Ohio nearly to Cincinnati. It is equally
plentiful in the northern parts of the Floridas, Georgia, and the two
Carolinas, after which it becomes rare. None, I believe, are ever
seen east of the State of New York. It enters the lower parts of
Louisiana about the middle of March, and by the beginning of May
has laid its eggs, or sometimes even hatched them. It arrives in
South Carolina in April, immediately constructs its nest, and has
young quite as soon as in Louisiana.
The Hooded Flycatcher is one of the liveliest of its tribe, and is
almost continually in motion. Fond of secluded places, it is equally to
be met with in the thick cane brakes of the high or low lands, or
amid the rank weeds and tangled bushes of the lowest and most
impenetrable swamps. You recognise it instantly on seeing it, for the
peculiar graceful opening and closing of its broad tail distinguishes it
at once, as it goes on gambolling from bush to bush, now in sight,
now hid from your eye, but constantly within hearing.
Its common call-note so resembles that of the Painted Finch or
Nonpareil, that it requires a practised ear to distinguish them. Its
song, however, is very different. It is rather loud, lively yet mellow,
and consists of three notes, resembling the syllables weet, weet,
weeteē, a marked emphasis being laid on the last. Although
extremely loquacious during the early part of spring, it becomes
almost silent the moment it has a brood; after which its notes are
heard only while the female is sitting on her eggs; for they raise two,
sometimes three, broods in a season.
Full of activity and spirit, it flies swiftly after its insect prey, securing
the greater part of it on wing. Its flight is low, gliding, and now and
then protracted to a considerable distance, as it seldom abandons
the pursuit of an insect until it has obtained it.
The nest of this gay bird is always placed low, and is generally
attached to the forks of small twigs. It is neatly and compactly
formed of mosses, dried grasses, and fibrous roots, and is carefully
lined with hair, and not unfrequently a few large feathers. The eggs
are from four to six, of a dull white, spotted with reddish-brown
towards the larger end. The male and female sit by turns, and show
extreme anxiety for the safety of their eggs or young.
My worthy friend John Bachman, gave me the following account of the
courageous disposition and strength of attachment of the Hooded
Flycatcher. "I found a nest of these birds in a low piece of ground, so
entangled with smilax and briars that it was difficult for me to pass
through it. The nest was not placed more than two feet from the
ground. This was in the month of May, and the parents were
engaged in feeding the young it contained. Not far from that spot,
whilst on a stand, waiting for a deer to pass, I saw another pair of
the Hooded Flycatcher collecting materials to build a nest. The
female was the most active, and yet the male was constantly near to
her. A Sharp-shinned Hawk suddenly pounced upon them, seized the
female, and flew off with her. The male, to my surprise, followed
close after the Hawk, flying within a few inches of him, and darting
at him in all directions, as if fully determined to make him drop his
prey. The pursuit continued thus until the birds were quite out of my
sight!"
This species, like many of its delicate tribe, appears to suffer so
much from occasional cold, that, although at all other times a shy
and wary bird, when chilly weather surprises it, it becomes at once
careless of its safety. On such occasions I have approached them
near enough to touch them with my gun. By the middle of
September they all retire farther south.
The plant on which I have represented a pair of these birds, is
common in the localities which they usually prefer. Although richly
coloured, it has no scent.

Hooded Flycatcher, Muscicapa cucullata, Wils. Amer. Ornith. vol. iii. p. 101. Pl.
26. Fig. 3. Male.—Nuttall, Manual, vol. i. p. 373.
Sylvia mitrata, Lath. Index Ornith. vol. ii. p. 528.—Bonaparte, Synops. of Birds
of the United States, p. 79.

Adult Male. Plate CX. Fig. 1.

Bill of moderate length, straight, subulato-conical, acute, nearly as
deep as broad at the base, the edges acute, the gap line a little
deflected at the base. Nostrils basal, elliptical, lateral, half-closed by
a membrane. Head rather small. Neck short. Body rather slender.
Feet of ordinary length, slender; tarsus longer than the middle toe,
covered anteriorly by a few scutella, the uppermost long; toes
scutellate above, the inner free, the hind toe of moderate size; claws
slender, compressed, acute, arched.
Plumage soft and blended. Wings short, a little rounded, the second
and third quills longest. Tail longish, slightly emarginate. Rather
strong bristles at the base of the bill.
Bill blackish above, paler below. Iris brown. Feet flesh-coloured.
Forehead, sides of the head, and the chin deep yellow, as are the
breast and belly. Hind-head, throat, and lower part of the neck
black. The general colour of the upper parts is yellowish-olive; wings
dusky; three lateral tail-feathers white on the terminal half of their
inner webs.
Length 5½, extent of wings 8; bill along the ridge nearly 5⁄12.

Adult Female. Plate CX. Fig. 2.

The Female has the forehead, the sides of the head, and all the
lower parts yellow, the hind part of the head dusky; in other
respects she resembles the male.
Dimensions nearly the same as in the male.

This species more resembles a Flycatcher than a Sylvia in its habits,

as well as in the bristles at the base of the bill, and, in fact, is very
nearly allied to the Muscicapa Selbii, vol. i. p. 46.
 THE LOST ONE.
A "Live-oaker" employed on the St John's River, in East Florida, left
his cabin, situated on the banks of that stream, and, with his axe on
his shoulder, proceeded towards the swamp in which he had several
times before plied his trade of felling and squaring the giant trees
that afford the most valuable timber for naval architecture and other
purposes.
At the season which is the best for this kind of labour, heavy fogs
not unfrequently cover the country, so as to render it difficult for one
to see farther than thirty or forty yards in any direction. The woods,
too, present so little variety, that every tree seems the mere
counterpart of every other; and the grass, when it has not been
burnt, is so tall that a man of ordinary stature cannot see over it,
whence it is necessary for him to proceed with great caution, lest he
should unwittingly deviate from the ill-defined trail which he follows.
To increase the difficulty, several trails often meet, in which case,
unless the explorer be perfectly acquainted with the neighbourhood,
it would be well for him to lie down, and wait until the fog should
disperse. Under such circumstances, the best woodsmen are not
unfrequently bewildered for a while; and I well remember that such
an occurrence happened to myself, at a time when I had
imprudently ventured to pursue a wounded quadruped, which led
me some distance from the track.
The live-oaker had been jogging onwards for several hours, and
became aware that he must have travelled considerably more than
the distance between his cabin and the "hummock" which he desired
to reach. To his alarm, at the moment when the fog dispersed, he
saw the sun at its meridian height, and could not recognise a single
object around him.
Young, healthy, and active, he imagined that he had walked with
more than usual speed, and had passed the place to which he was
bound. He accordingly turned his back upon the sun, and pursued a
different route, guided by a small trail. Time passed, and the sun
headed his course: he saw it gradually descend in the west, but all
around him continued as if enveloped with mystery. The huge grey
trees spread their giant boughs over him, the rank grass extended
on all sides, not a living being crossed his path, all was silent and
still, and the scene was like a dull and dreary dream of the land of
oblivion. He wandered like a forgotten ghost that had passed into
the land of spirits, without yet meeting one of his kind with whom to
hold converse.
The condition of a man lost in the woods is one of the most
perplexing that could be imagined by a person who has not himself
been in a like predicament. Every object he sees, he at first thinks
he recognises, and while his whole mind is bent on searching for
more that may gradually lead to his extrication, he goes on
committing greater errors the farther he proceeds. This was the case
with the live-oaker. The sun was now setting with a fiery aspect, and
by degrees it sunk in its full circular form, as if giving warning of a
sultry morrow. Myriads of insects, delighted at its departure, now
filled the air on buzzing wings. Each piping frog arose from the
muddy pool in which it had concealed itself; the squirrel retired to its
hole, the crow to its roost, and, far above, the harsh croaking voice
of the heron announced that, full of anxiety, it was wending its way
to the miry interior of some distant swamp. Now the woods began to
resound to the shrill cries of the owl; and the breeze, as it swept
among the columnar stems of the forest-trees, came laden with
heavy and chilling dews. Alas, no moon with her silvery light shone
on the dreary scene, and the Lost One, wearied and vexed, laid
himself down on the damp ground. Prayer is always consolatory to
man in every difficulty or danger, and the woodsman fervently
prayed to his Maker, wished his family a happier night than it was his
lot to experience, and with a feverish anxiety waited the return of
day.
You may imagine the length of that cold, dull, moonless night. With
the dawn of day came the usual fogs of those latitudes. The poor
man started on his feet, and with a sorrowful heart, pursued a
course which he thought might lead him to some familiar object,
although, indeed, he scarcely knew what he was doing. No longer
had he the trace of a track to guide him, and yet, as the sun rose,
he calculated the many hours of day-light he had before him, and
the farther he went continued to walk the faster. But vain were all
his hopes: that day was spent in fruitless endeavours to regain the
path that led to his home, and when night again approached, the
terror that had been gradually spreading over his mind, together
with the nervous debility induced by fatigue, anxiety, and hunger,
rendered him almost frantic. He told me that at this moment he beat
his breast, tore his hair, and, had it not been for the piety with which
his parents had in early life imbued his mind, and which had become
habitual, would have cursed his existence. Famished as he now was,
he laid himself on the ground, and fed on the weeds and grass that
grew around him. That night was spent in the greatest agony and
terror. "I knew my situation," he said to me. "I was fully aware that
unless Almighty God came to my assistance, I must perish in those
uninhabited woods. I knew that I had walked more than fifty miles,
although I had not met with a brook, from which I could quench my
thirst, or even allay the burning heat of my parched lips and blood-
shot eyes. I knew that if I should not meet with some stream I must
die, for my axe was my only weapon, and although deer and bears
now and then started within a few yards or even feet of me, not one
of them could I kill; and although I was in the midst of abundance,
not a mouthful did I expect to procure, to satisfy the cravings of my
empty stomach. Sir, may God preserve you from ever feeling as I did
the whole of that day!"
For several days after, no one can imagine the condition in which he
was, for when he related to me this painful adventure, he assured
me that he had lost all recollection of what had happened. "God," he
continued, "must have taken pity on me one day, for, as I ran wildly
through those dreadful pine barrens, I met with a tortoise. I gazed
upon it with amazement and delight, and, although I knew that were
I to follow it undisturbed, it would lead me to some water, my
hunger and thirst would not allow me to refrain from satisfying both,
by eating its flesh, and drinking its blood. With one stroke of my axe
the beast was cut in two, and in a few moments I dispatched all but
the shell. Oh, Sir, how much I thanked God, whose kindness had put
the tortoise in my way! I felt greatly renewed. I sat down at the foot
of a pine, gazed on the heavens, thought of my poor wife and
children, and again, and again thanked my God for my life, for now I
felt less distracted in mind, and more assured that before long I
must recover my way, and get back to my home."
The Lost One remained and passed the night, at the foot of the
same tree under which his repast had been made. Refreshed by a
sound sleep, he started at dawn to resume his weary march. The
sun rose bright, and he followed the direction of the shadows. Still
the dreariness of the woods was the same, and he was on the point
of giving up in despair, when he observed a racoon lying squatted in
the grass. Raising his axe, he drove it with such violence through the
helpless animal, that it expired without a struggle. What he had
done with the turtle, he now did with the racoon, the greater part of
which he actually devoured at one meal. With more comfortable
feelings, he then resumed his wanderings—his journey I cannot say,
—for although in the possession of all his faculties, and in broad
daylight, he was worse off than a lame man groping his way in the
dark out of a dungeon, of which he knew not where the door stood.
Days, one after another, passed,—nay, weeks in succession. He fed
now on cabbage-trees, then on frogs and snakes. All that fell in his
way was welcome and savoury. Yet he became daily more
emaciated, until at length he could scarcely crawl. Forty days had
elapsed, by his own reckoning, when he at last reached the banks of
the river. His clothes in tatters, his once bright axe dimmed with
rust, his face begrimmed with beard, his hair matted, and his feeble
frame little better than a skeleton covered with parchment, there he
laid himself down to die. Amid the perturbed dreams of his fevered
fancy, he thought he heard the noise of oars far away on the silent
river. He listened, but the sounds died away on his ear. It was indeed
a dream, the last glimmer of expiring hope, and now the light of life
was about to be quenched for ever. But again, the sound of oars
awoke him from his lethargy. He listened so eagerly, that the hum of
a fly could not have escaped his ear. They were indeed the
measured beats of oars, and now, joy to the forlorn soul! the sound
of human voices thrilled to his heart, and awoke the tumultuous
pulses of returning hope. On his knees did the eye of God see that
poor man by the broad still stream that glittered in the sunbeams,
and human eyes soon saw him too, for round that headland covered
with tangled brushwood boldly advances the little boat, propelled by
its lusty rowers. The Lost One raises his feeble voice on high;—it
was a loud shrill scream of joy and fear. The rowers pause, and look
around. Another, but feebler scream, and they observe him. It
comes,—his heart flutters, his sight is dimmed, his brain reels, he
gasps for breath. It comes,—it has run upon the beach, and the Lost
One is found.
This is no tale of fiction, but the relation of an actual occurrence,
which might be embellished, no doubt, but which is better in the
plain garb of truth. The notes by which I recorded it were written, in
the cabin of the once lost live-oaker, about four years after the
painful incident occurred. His amiable wife, and loving children, were
present at the recital, and never shall I forget the tears that flowed
from them as they listened to it, albeit it had long been more
familiar to them than a tale thrice told. Sincerely do I wish, good
reader, that neither you nor I may ever elicit such sympathy, by
having undergone such sufferings, although no doubt such sympathy
would be a rich recompense for them.
It only remains for me to say, that the distance between the cabin
and the live-oak hummock to which the woodsman was bound,
scarcely exceeded 8 miles, while the part of the river at which he
was found, was 38 miles from his house. Calculating his daily
wanderings at 10 miles, we may believe that they amounted in all to
400. He must, therefore, have rambled in a circuitous direction,
which people generally do in such circumstances. Nothing but the
great strength of his constitution, and the merciful aid of his Maker,
could have supported him for so long a time.
 THE PILEATED WOODPECKER.

Picus pileatus, Linn.

PLATE CXI. Male, Female and Young Males.

It would be difficult for me to say in what part of our extensive

country I have not met with this hardy inhabitant of the forest. Even
now, when several species of our birds are becoming rare, destroyed
as they are, either to gratify the palate of the epicure, or to adorn
the cabinet of the naturalist, the Pileated Woodpecker is every where
to be found in the wild woods, although scarce and shy in the
peopled districts.
Wherever it occurs it is a permanent resident, and, like its relative
the Ivory-billed Woodpecker, it remains pretty constantly in the place
which it has chosen after leaving its parents. It is at all times a shy
bird, so that one can seldom approach it, unless under cover of a
tree, or when he happens accidentally to surprise it while engaged in
its daily avocations. When seen in a large field newly brought into
tillage, and yet covered with girdled trees, it removes from one to
another, cackling out its laughter-like notes, as if it found delight in
leading you a wild-goose chase in pursuit of it. When followed it
always alights on the tallest branches or trunks of trees, removes to
the side farthest off, from which it every moment peeps, as it
watches your progress in silence; and so well does it seem to know
the distance at which a shot can reach it, that it seldom permits so
near an approach. Often when you think the next step will take you
near enough to fire with certainty, the wary bird flies off before you
can reach it. Even in the wildest parts of Eastern Florida, where I
have at times followed it, to assure myself that the birds I saw were
of the same species as that found in our distant Atlantic States, its
vigilance was not in the least abated. For miles have I chased it from
one cabbage-tree to another, without ever getting within shooting
distance, until at last I was forced to resort to stratagem, and
seeming to abandon the chase, took a circuitous route, concealed
myself in its course, and waited until it came up, when, it being now
on the side of the tree next to me, I had no difficulty in bringing it
down. I shall never forget, that, while in the Great Pine Forest of
Pennsylvania, I spent several days in the woods endeavouring to
procure one, for the same purpose of proving its identity with others
elsewhere seen.
Their natural wildness never leaves them, even although they may
have been reared from the nest. I will give you an instance of this,
as related to me by my generous friend the Reverend John Bachman
of Charleston, who also speaks of the cruelty of the species. "A pair
of Pileated Woodpeckers had a nest in an old elm tree, in a swamp
which they occupied that year; the next spring early, two Blue Birds
took possession of it, and there had young. Before these were half
grown, the Woodpeckers returned to the place, and, despite of the
cries and reiterated attacks of the Blue Birds, the others took the
young, not very gently, as you may imagine, and carried them away
to some distance. Next the nest itself was disposed of, the hole
cleaned and enlarged, and there they raised a brood. The nest, it is
true, was originally their own. The tree was large, but so situated,
that, from the branches of another I could reach the nest. The hole
was about 18 inches deep, and I could touch the bottom with my
hand. The eggs, which were laid on fragments of chips, expressly
left by the birds, were six, large, white and translucent. Before the
Woodpeckers began to sit, I robbed them of their eggs, to see if
they would lay a second time. They waited a few days as if
undecided, when on a sudden I heard the female at work again in
the tree; she once more deepened the hole, made it broader at
bottom, and recommenced laying. This time she laid five eggs. I
suffered her to bring out her young, both sexes alternately
incubating, each visiting the other at intervals, peeping into the hole
to see that all was right and well there, and flying off afterwards in
search of food.
When the young were sufficiently grown to be taken out with safety,
which I ascertained by seeing them occasionally peeping out of the
hole, I carried them home, to judge of their habits in confinement,
and attempted to raise them. I found it exceedingly difficult to entice
them to open their bill in order to feed them. They were sullen and
cross, nay, three died in a few days; but the others, having been fed
on grasshoppers forcibly introduced into their mouths, were raised.
In a short time they began picking up the grasshoppers thrown into
their cage, and were fully fed with corn-meal, which they preferred
eating dry. Their whole employment consisted in attempting to
escape from their prison, regularly demolishing one every two days,
although made of pine boards of tolerable thickness. I at last had
one constructed with oak boards at the back and sides, and rails of
the same in front. This was too much for them, and their only
comfort was in passing and holding their bills through the hard bars.
In the morning after receiving water, which they drank freely, they
invariably upset the cup or saucer, and although this was large and
flattish, they regularly turned it quite over. After this they attacked
the trough which contained their food, and soon broke it to pieces,
and when perchance I happened to approach them with my hand,
they made passes at it with their powerful bills with great force. I
kept them in this manner until winter. They were at all times
uncleanly and unsociable birds. On opening the door of my study
one morning, one of them dashed off by me, alighted on an apple-
tree near the house, climbed some distance, and kept watching me
from one side and then the other, as if to ask what my intentions
were. I walked into my study:—the other was hammering at my
books. They had broken one of the bars of the cage, and must have
been at liberty for some hours, judging by the mischief they had
done. Fatigued of my pets, I opened the door, and this last one
hearing the voice of his brother, flew towards him and alighted on
the same tree. They remained about half an hour, as if consulting
each other, after which, taking to their wings together, they flew off
in a southern direction, and with much more ease than could have
been expected from birds so long kept in captivity. The ground was
covered with snow, and I never more saw them. No birds of this
species ever bred since in the hole spoken of in this instance, and I
consider it as much wilder than the Ivory-billed Woodpecker."
While in the Great Pine Forest of Pennsylvania, of which I have
repeatedly spoken, I was surprised to see how differently this bird
worked on the bark of different trees, when searching for its food.
On the hemlock and spruce, for example, of which the bark is
difficult to be detached, it used the bill sideways, hitting the bark in
an oblique direction, and proceeding in close parallel lines, so that
when, after a while, a piece of the bark was loosened and broken off
by a side stroke, the surface of the trunk appeared as if closely
grooved by a carpenter using a gouge. In this manner the Pileated
Woodpecker often, in that country, strips the entire trunks of the
largest trees. On the contrary, when it attacked any other sort of
timber, it pelted at the bark in a straightforward manner, detaching a
large piece by a few strokes, and leaving the trunks smooth, no
injury having been inflicted upon it by the bill.
This bird, when surprised, is subject to very singular and astonishing
fits of terror. While in Louisiana, I have several times crept up to one
occupied in searching for food, on the rotten parts of a low stump
only a few inches from the ground, when, having got so near the
tree as almost to touch it, I have taken my cap and suddenly struck
the stump, as if with the intention of securing the bird; on which the
latter instantly seemed to lose all power or presence of mind, and
fell to the ground as if dead. On such occasions, if not immediately
secured, it soon recovers, and flies off with more than its usual
speed. When surprised when feeding on a tree, they now and then
attempt to save themselves by turning round the trunk or branches,
and do not fly away unless two persons be present, well knowing, it
would seem, that flying is not always a sure means of escape. If
wounded without falling, it mounts at once to the highest fork of the
tree, where it squats and remains in silence. It is then very difficult
to kill it, and sometimes, when shot dead, it clings so firmly to the
bark that it may remain hanging for hours. When winged and
brought to the ground, it cries loudly on the approach of its enemy,
and essays to escape by every means in its power, often inflicting a
severe wound if incautiously seized.
The Pileated Woodpecker is fond of Indian corn, chestnuts, acorns,
fruits of every kind, particularly wild grapes, and insects of all
descriptions. The maize it attacks while yet in its milky state, laying
it bare, like the Redheads or Squirrels. For this reason, it often draws
upon itself the vengeance of the farmer, who, however, is always
disposed, without provocation, to kill the "Woodcock," or "Logcock"
as it is commonly named by our country people.
The flight of this well known bird is powerful, and, on occasion,
greatly protracted, resembling in all respects that of the Ivory-billed
Woodpecker. Its notes are loud and clear, and the rolling sound
produced by its hammerings, may be heard at the distance of a
quarter of a mile. Its flesh is tough, of a bluish tint, and smells so
strongly of the worms and insects on which it generally feeds, as to
be extremely unpalatable. It almost always breeds in the interior of
the forests, and frequently on trees placed in deep swamps over the
water, appearing to give a preference to the southern side of the
tree, on which I have generally found its hole, to which it retreats
during winter or in rainy weather, and which is sometimes bored
perpendicularly, although frequently not, as I have seen some
excavated much in the form of that of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker.
Its usual depth is from twelve to eighteen inches, its breadth from
two and a half to three, and at the bottom sometimes five or six. It
rears, I believe, only one brood in a season. The young follow their
parents for a long time after coming abroad, receive food from
them, and remain with them until the return of spring. The old birds,
as well as the young, are fond of retiring at night to their holes, to
which they return more especially in winter. My young friend, Thomas
Lincoln, Esq. of the State of Maine, knew of one that seldom
removed far from its retreat during the whole of the inclement
season.
The observation of many years has convinced me, that Woodpeckers
of all sorts have the bill longer when just fledged than at any future
period of their life, and that through use it becomes not only shorter,
but also much harder, stronger, and sharper. When the Woodpecker
first leaves the nest, its bill may easily be bent; six months after, it
resists the force of the fingers; and when the bird is twelve months
old, the organ has acquired its permanent bony hardness. On
measuring the bill of a young bird of this species not long able to fly,
and that of an adult bird, I found the former seven-eighths of an
inch longer than the latter. This difference I have represented in the
plate. It is also curious to observe, that the young birds of this
family, which have the bill tender, either search for larvæ in the most
decayed or rotten stumps and trunks of trees, or hunt the deserted
old fields, in search of blackberries and other fruits, as if sensible of
their inaptitude for attacking the bark of sound trees or the wood
itself.

Picus pileatus, Linn. Syst. Nat. vol. i. p. 173.—Lath. Ind. Ornith. vol. i. p. 225.—
Ch. Bonaparte, Synops. of Birds of the United States, p. 44.
Pileated Woodpecker, Picus pileatus, Wils. Amer. Ornith. vol. iv. p. 27. Pl. 29. Fig.
2.—Nuttall, Manual, part i. p. 567.

Adult Male. Plate CXI. Fig. 1.

Bill long, straight, strong, polyhedral, tapering, compressed and
slightly truncated by being worn at the tip; mandibles of equal
length, both nearly straight in their dorsal outline; their sides
convex. Tongue worm-shaped, capable of reaching four inches
beyond the bill, horny near the tip for about one-eighth of an inch,
and barbed. Nostrils basal, oval, partly covered by recumbent bristly
feathers. Head large. Neck rather long, slender. Body robust. Feet
rather short, robust; tarsus strong scutellate before, scaly on the
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