Here he made friends with an Indian girl whose name was Pretty-Dancing-Maiden who was the pride of her people. There was no sport she loved so much as dancing, and the graceful movements of her slender figure and dainty feet made all the people call her the best dancer in the village. Whenever this maiden dressed for a dance Grey Woodpecker helped her paint her face with many colours. When she was ready he would hop a little distance off and, with his head on one side, say, "Pretty-Dancing-Maiden is more beautiful than any bird of the forest." One day after she had finished painting he looked admiringly at her but said nothing. The maiden laughed merrily and asked, "What colour needs deepening, Grey Woodpecker?" "Red! _Red! Red!_" was his answer, for the bird loved the brilliant colour best which the maiden used on her cheeks and smiling lips. Then Pretty-Dancing-Maiden always took up the bits of wood which she used for brushes, dipped them into red paint, and again touched daintily her cheeks and lips. And with a merry good-bye to Grey Woodpecker she ran lightly out of the wigwam to the dance. It happened one evening after the maiden had gayly dressed for the dance and waved good-bye to her little feathered friend, the bird looked intently at the bits of wood which the maiden had used to put on the beautiful red paint. In a little while his eyes twinkled merrily and he said, "I'll make myself beautiful too! I'll use Pretty-Dancing-Maiden's red paint brushes and brighten my suit of plain grey and white." He took up the wooden brushes and rubbed the red paint over his ears. Two brilliant stripes he made, for there was plenty of the colour on the bits of sticks. How happy he was! "The birds of the forest shall never again call me a bird of plain clothes," said he. And ever since that far-off day the woodpeckers have worn red stripes over their ears. A RETORT FROM THE CATBIRD I heard the Catbird in the bush With breathless ecstasy; No bobolink or fluttering thrush Made carol sweet as he. It bubbled like a mountain rill Drenching the weary day, With eddying turn and rippling trill, A magic roundelay. I heard the Catbird once again. A harsh, discordant note, Which pierced the shuddering ear with pain, Came from the selfsame throat. O bird perverse! That heavenly voice Tuned to so sharp a key! Why cease to make the air rejoice Debasing minstrelsy? Why not be ever at your best? Again the peevish mew Answering, accusing me with zest: "Are you?" he cried, "are y-o-u?" ABBIE FARWELL BROWN. WOODPECKER LIFE