of 



and is retreating leisurely toward the south, wise 

 thing ! Muskrat is building a warm winter lodge ; 

 Chipmunk has already dug his but and ben, and so 

 far down under the stone wall that a month of zeros 

 could not break in ; Whitefoot, the woodmouse, has 

 stored the hollow poplar stub full of acorns, and has 

 turned Robin's deserted nest, near by, into a cosy 

 house; and Chickadee, dear thing, Nature herself 

 looks after him. There are plenty of provisions for 

 the hunting, and a big piece of suet on my lilac bush. 

 His clothes are warm, and he will hide his head under 

 his wing in the elm-tree hole when the north wind 

 doth blow, and never mind the weather. 



I shall not mind it either, not so much, anyway, 

 on account of Chickadee. He lends me a deal of 

 support. So do Chipmunk, Whitefoot, and Muskrat. 



This lodge of my muskrats in the meadow makes 

 a difference, I am sure, of at least ten degrees in the 

 mean temperature of my winter. How can the out- 

 of-doors freeze entirely up with such a house as this 

 at the middle of it ? For in this house is life, warm 

 life, and fire. On the coldest day I can look out 

 over the bleak white waste to where the house shows, 

 a tiny mound in the snow, and I can see the fire burn, 



6 



