This California woodpecker is quite a 

 showy bird. One came to grief — 1 know 

 not how — but I found him lying dead 

 near a barbed-wire fence while on one 

 of my long rambles. 



General colorings are black and white 

 with a jaunty scarlet cap on the head 

 and a dash of yellow at the throat. In 

 some lights the back looked a glossy 

 greenish black, in others a lustrous blue- 

 black. White bars show on the wing in 

 flight. Breast is white, flecked with black- 

 on lower part and on the abdomen. Male 

 and female appear very much alike in 

 their markings. 



They are exceedingly industrious, much 

 given to chattering as they work, and very 



aggressive toward the smaller birds, 

 who may presume to venture near their 

 domain. Long before King Sol had 

 climbed the granite peaks and sent his 

 sunbeams chasing each other on the roof 

 of our tent, the woodpeckers were at 

 their day's work. 



By the chips in shape of acorn caps 

 under the white oaks, one is lead to be- 

 lieve that they are good workers. 



A tree is soon stripped, and not an 

 acorn left any poor, wandering squirrel. 



I left them the last of October still 



actively putting in provisions for the 



cold weather, and I hoped no hard 



storms would interrupt their harvesting. 



Elnora Moody. 



A WEED. 



Because I scatter my seed 



Prodigally and grow 



Where the wind has chanced to blow— 

 You call me a weed. 



I look at your gardens fair 

 With flowers in tidy rows, 

 And my wild little seed-heart knows 



I could never be happy there. 



My mother was gypsy born, 



My father a roving bee, 



There is vagabond blood in me — 

 I am not to be trained and shorn. 



I am poor and mean indeed 



But I make the waste place glad 

 And the wayside color mad 



Where there is room for a weed. 



-Louise Driscoll. 



73 



