"I saw your mother brace herself against the tree with her stiff tail.

Then how her wedge-shaped bill rapped and rapped against the wood. For fully twenty minutes she rapped away at the rotten wood. Then she grew tired and your father took her place at the tree-trunk.

"Soon they pecked a hole deep enough to hide them from sight, but their constant rap, rap, rap could still be heard.

"I wondered how deep they made the hole, but it was too high for me to climb to find out."

"Having just come from the nest I can tell you all about it," replied the young woodp.e.c.k.e.r. "My parents dug down into the soft trunk to a depth of perhaps eighteen inches. At the bottom they hollowed out a large roomy place for the nest. They did not line it with feathers or gra.s.ses. Instead of a bed of moss was a little sawdust and the smooth white sides of the oak.

"In this nest my mother laid six pure white eggs. She sat on them and kept them warm until at last six downy birds came out of the sh.e.l.ls.

"We were hungry little things. Both our mother and father were kept busy filling our greedy, ever-open mouths.

"And whatever they brought was sure to be very nice. Sometimes it was a cherry or a berry, sometimes a bit of pear or apple.

"But, best of all, were the fat, juicy little grubs which they often brought.

"I asked my father where he got the grubs. He made fun of me and called out to my mother in his shrill, lively way.

"She said that that was a thing which every young woodp.e.c.k.e.r should find out for himself.

"After that, every time a fat grub was brought to me, I wondered if I should ever be able to find them when I began to shift for myself.

"At last my wings were strong enough and my parents called me out of the nest. I very soon found that the fat grubs lived beneath the bark of my own oak-tree. All I had to do was to strike my bill into the bark and bear off the prize."

"Were you sorry to leave your safe high nest?" asked Phyllis.

"Indeed it was not so safe," said the young woodp.e.c.k.e.r. "On the day that I left the nest a great black snake crept in. He swallowed my little brothers and sisters.

"My parents were wild with grief. They said that was the thing they always dreaded, that such things often happened in woodp.e.c.k.e.rs' nests."

"How sad!" said Phyllis. "I should never have thought of snakes!"

"They are our greatest danger," was the reply. "Squirrels sometimes come in and steal the nuts and corn we have stored away, but the snake is the most to be feared."

"So you store away food?" Phyllis asked. "Do you stay here in the winter, then?"

"Oh, yes, we often stay all winter. Have you not seen us flying about among the trees in the winter-time?"

By this time the bird sat on the window-sill.

"Must you go?" asked Phyllis. "Here is a strawberry for you."

"Thanks," said the bird, pecking away at the fruit. "I am just off to the corn-field. My father showed me this morning how to open the husks of the green corn to get at the rich, milky kernels inside."

"When you get your red cap, come back," cried Phyllis, and the young woodp.e.c.k.e.r's lively cry answered from the corn-field.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND[1]

Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges, when it snows; And the children look like bears' cubs In their funny, furry clothes;

They tell them a curious story-- I don't believe 'tis true; And yet you may learn a lesson If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage, In travelling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her from her store of cakes To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one, But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny sc.r.a.p of dough, And rolled and rolled it flat; And baked it as thin as a wafer-- But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small, When I eat them myself, Are yet too large to give away."

So she put them on the shelf.

Then the good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodp.e.c.k.e.r, For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, But all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country schoolboy Has seen her in the wood; Where she lives in the trees till this very day, Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches: Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given you, Listen to pity's call; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodp.e.c.k.e.r's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live As selfishly as you can; But you will be changed to a smaller thing-- A mean and a selfish man.

--Phoebe Cary.

[1] Used by permission of and special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co.