of 



I said he is summer's pledge, the token of hope 

 to me. He is a lesson also. I don't often find ser- 

 mons in stones, because, no doubt, I look so little 

 for the sermons, so little for the very stones. But I 

 cannot help seeing chickadee, and chickadee is all 

 sermon. I hear him on a joyous May morning call- 

 ing Chick-a-dee ! dee ! Chick-a-dee ! dee ! brisk, 

 bright, and cheery ; or, soft and gentle as a caress, 

 he whistles, Phce-ee-bee ! Phce-ee-bee ! I meet him 

 again on the edge of a bleak, midwinter night. He 

 is hungry and cold, and he calls, as I hasten along, 

 Chick-a-dee ! dee! CJiick-a-dee ! dee! brisk, bright, 

 and cheery; or, soft and gentle as a caress, he 

 whistles, Phce-ee-bee ! Phce-ee-bee ! 



Will you lend me your wings, chickadee, those in- 

 visible wings on which you ride the winds of life so 

 evenly ? For I would hang ray ill-balanced soul be- 

 tween them, as your bird soul hangs, and fly as you 

 fly. 



The abundant summer, the lean and wolfish winter, 

 find chickadee cheerful and gentle. He is busier at 

 some seasons than at others, with fewer chances 

 for friendship. He almost disappears in the early 

 summer. But this is because of family cares ; and 



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