sharp bark of the red squirrel and the low of cattle, lazily
chewing their cuds among the willows, came to him. The hammering
of a woodpecker on a dead sycamore, a little above him, rolled to
his straining ears like a drum beat.

The Cardinal hated the woodpecker more than he disliked the dove.

It was only foolishly effusive, but the woodpecker was a
veritable Bluebeard. The Cardinal longed to pull the feathers
from his back until it was as red as his head, for the woodpecker
had dressed his suit in finest style, and with dulcet tones and
melting tenderness had gone acourting. Sweet as the dove's had
been his wooing, and one more pang the lonely Cardinal had
suffered at being forced to witness his felicity; yet scarcely
had his plump, amiable little mate consented to his caresses and
approved the sycamore, before he turned on her, pecked her
severely, and pulled a tuft of plumage from her breast. There
was not the least excuse for this tyrannical action; and the
sight filled the Cardinal with rage. He fully expected to see
Madam Woodpecker divorce herself and flee her new home, and he
most earnestly hoped that she would; but she did no such thing.
She meekly flattened her feathers, hurried work in a lively
manner, and tried in every way to anticipate and avert her mate's
displeasure. Under this treatment he grew more abusive, and now
Madam Woodpecker dodged every time she came within his reach. It
made the Cardinal feel so vengeful that he longed to go up and
drum the sycamore with the woodpecker's head until he taught him
how to treat his mate properly.

There was plently of lark music rolling with the river, and that