grieving. From the depths of those forests where sunbeams dance among the leaves and struggle with them in a vain endeavor to reach the delicate ferns and flowers that nestle below, her sweet but plaintive cry is wafted to us on the breeze that comes laden with forest echoes. Soft and clear, each syllable strikes our ear—cuuc-tu-tuzen! ending as with a sigh, and the Maya poet tells us why the bird is lamenting.
This violet-plumed dove, emblem of the faithful wife, was, on a lovely morning, carefully guarding the little eggs in the nest. Along came the squirrel, a sagacious and artful creature, and perched on a pliant bough near by the tranquil nest. Making himself as pretty and winning as possible, he addressed himself to the dove.
"My dear friend, why do you thus always remain at home, lonely and unsociable?"
"My husband is out," said the innocent wife; "when he returns I will go. We must not leave the tiny eggs unprotected." "Poor little one!" replied the sly animal, "while you are taking care of the nest your husband is amusing himself with other doves. This very day, I have seen him with my own eyes."
Like a poisoned arrow, jealousy wounded the
