The Wryneck's Nest

That summer bird its oft-repeated note
Chirps from the dottrel ash, and in the hole
The green woodpecker made in years remote,
It makes its nest. When peeping idlers stroll
In anxious plundering moods, they by and by
The Wryneck's curious eggs, as white as snow,
While squinting in the hollow tree, espy.
The sitting bird looks up with jetty eye,
And waves her head in terror to and fro,
Speckled and veined with various shades of brown
And then a hissing noise assails the clown.
Quickly, with hasty terror in his breast,
From the tree's knotty trunk he slides adown,
And thinks the strange bird guards a serpent's nest.