220 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



About five o'clock Sunday morning (May 

 31) a deer stepped boldly out of the woods at 

 the top of a sloping field and surveyed the val- 

 ley below it. A small farmhouse from whose 

 chimney a column of pale blue smoke rose into 

 the hazy air, a big barn with cattle standing in 

 front of it, a man milking one of the cows, a 

 green meadow dotted with vivid green larches, a 

 small round pond framed in grass and weeds of 

 just the kind deer like best this was the picture 

 the deer saw and found pleasant to its eyes. 

 It walked down the hill, crossing a strip of 

 plowed land, leaped over a brush fence, and 

 paused in the highway. The cow which was 

 being milked raised her head and gazed fixedly 

 at the deer. The man felt the cow's motion, and 

 looked too. Seeing the deer he whistled shrilly. 

 The deer threw up its head, shook its stub tail, 

 crossed the road with a bound, plunged through 

 the larches and vanished in the deep dark woods 

 by the lake. 



It was an hour when bird voices filled the 

 air with their messages of love and happiness. 

 The rain had ceased, the sun was shining ; no- 

 thing came between these children of the air 

 and their completest joy. If one wishes to be- 

 lieve that life may be and is happy, look at the 

 birds at the opening of summer and see how 

 seldom a shadow crosses their path. Even if 



