soft tale of her sorrows. Suddenly, from the spring's bank she heard a grating voice trying to imitate her song. She listened. The voice was hushed. She sang a few more notes, and again the voice tried to repeat them. She flew in anger down to the spring. There sat little green Frog in his shining white vest.
"So it 's you, you twanging Frog, is it?" demanded Whip-poor-will. "Well, if you like night singing so much, you can serve as a light for me to see by." And she seized him by one foot and threw him into the sky. There he fell with his legs all spread out and his shining white vest turned toward the earth. There you may see him yet, still furnishing light for Whip-poor-will to see by.
"Oh, the poor frog!" sympathized Juanita. "The birds up north seem so—"
"What kind of a bird is the whip-poor-will, Klayukat?" interrupted Antonio, seeing the old man look offended. "Does it sing like our lark?"
"I do not know, young Antonio. You must not expect an Indian to know things."
"Oh, but you do know things," insisted both children. "You know beautiful stories."
"I was only thinking about the blue jay's cutting the rope, and now this whip-poor-will," explained
