The Indians had no more trouble after that; for if anything tried to climb the tree, it was caught in the band of sticky pitch.
While Massea was smearing the pitch around the trunk, Docas saw a bird at work in a tree near by.
“There is the woodpecker,” cried Docas, pointing to a woodpecker busily putting acorns away in his storehouse.
The woodpecker’s storehouse was not like Massea’s. Every summer the woodpecker pecks a great many holes just the size of an acorn in the bark of a tree. When fall comes, and the acorns are ripe, he puts the best ones in his holes. He hammers them in so tight that they do not often fall out.
After the storehouse was made.
“I hope we shall not have to take the woodpecker’s acorns this winter,” said Massea.
As long as their acorns lasted, Massea and the other Indians did not touch the acorns that the woodpecker had gathered. But one day all the Indians at the rancheria went off fishing. While they were gone their campfire spread and burned the tree in which they had made their storehouse.
Docas was skipping along ahead as they came home. He saw what had happened. He ran back to Massea and Ama, crying out, “The storehouse is burnt! The storehouse is burnt!”
Massea looked very sad at supper that night, and said, “I am afraid we shall have to take the woodpecker’s acorns.”