of 



us, sharing, as far as the double windows would allow, 

 the cheer of our dining-room. We served them on the 

 lilac bush outside the window, tying their suet on so 

 that they could see us and we them during meal time. 

 Perhaps it was mere suet, no feast of soul at all, that 

 they got ; but constantly, when our pie was opened, 

 the birds began to sing, a dainty dish indeed, sa- 

 vory, wholesome, and good for our souls. 



There are states in the far Northwest where the 

 porcupine is protected by law, as a last food resource 

 for men lost and starving in the forests. Perhaps the 

 porcupine was not designed by nature for any such 

 purpose. Perhaps chickadee was not left behind by 

 summer to feed our lost and starving hope through 

 the cheerless months. But that is the use I make of 

 him. He is summer's pledge to me. The woods are 

 hollow, the winds chill, the earth cold and stiff, but 

 there flits chickadee, and I cannot lose faith, nor 

 feel that this procession of bleak white days is all a 

 funeral ! 



He is the only bird in my little world that I can find 

 without fail three hundred and sixty-five days in the 

 year. From December to the end of March he comes 

 daily to my lilac bush for suet ; from April to early 



78 



