THE RED-BELLIED WOODPECKER 



A little Woodpecker am I, 

 And you may always know 



When I am searching for a worm, 

 For tap, tap, tap, I go. 



Oh yes, I am proud of my ap- 

 pearance, but really I am not 

 proud of my name. Sometimes 

 I am called the u Zebra Bird," 

 on account of the bands of white 

 and black on my back and wings. 

 That is a much prettier name, I 

 think, than the Red-bellied 

 Woodpecker, don't you? Cer- 

 tainly it is more genteel. 



I know a bird that is called the 

 Red-eyed Vireo,because his eyes 

 are red. Well, my eyes are 

 red, too. Then why not call me 

 the Red - eyed Woodpecker? 

 Still the Woodpeckers are such 

 a common family I don't much 

 care about that either. 



In the last February number 

 of BIRDS that saucy red-headed 

 cousin of mine had his picture 

 and a letter. Before very long 

 the Red-cockaded Woodpecker 

 will have his picture taken too, 

 I suppose. 



Dear, dear ! If all the Wood- 

 peckers are going to write to 

 you, you will have a merry time. 

 Why, I can count twenty-four 

 different species of that family 

 and I have only four fingers, or 

 toes, to count on, and you little 

 folks have five. There may be 

 more of them, Woodpeckers I 

 mean, for all I know. 



Speaking about toes! I have 

 two in front and two behind. 

 There are some Woodpeckers 

 that have only three, two in front 

 and one behind. It's a fact, I 

 assure you. I thought I would 

 tell you about it before one of 

 the three toed fellows got a 

 chance to write to you about it 

 himself. 



I am not so shy and wary a 

 bird as some people think I am. 

 When I want an insect, or worm, 

 I don't care how many eyes are 

 watching me, but up the tree I 

 climb in my zig-zag fashion, 

 crying chaw-chaw, or chow-chow in 

 a noisy Sort of way. Sometimes 

 I say chuck, chuck, chuck! The 

 first is Chinese, and the last Eng- 

 lish, you know. You might 

 think it sounded like the bark of 

 a small dog, though. 



I am fond of flies and catch 

 them on the wing. I like ripe 

 apples, too ; and oh, what a good 

 time I have in winter raiding 

 the farmer's corn crib! I have 

 only to hammer at the logs with 

 my sharp bill, and soon I can 

 squeeze myself in between them 

 and eat my fill. I understand 

 the farmer doesn't like it very 

 much. 



