316 THE DRAMA OF THE FORESTS 



bit of moss; but the mild sun, the crisp air, the sweet breathing 

 earth, the gently whispering trees seemed to make him so very 

 happy he could not but tell of it. Alighting on a twig he 

 dropped the moss, opened his beak, and poured forth in 

 song the joy his httle body could no longer contain. That 

 is the joy of a northern No-Man's Land in the month of 

 May. 



"We are so happy in our woodland home that we wish every- 

 one might share it with us. But perhaps some would not 

 enjoy what we enjoy, or see what we see, and some are pre- 

 vented from coming by the duties of other callings, and each 

 must follow the pathway his feet are most fitted to tread. For 

 myself, I only want my httle log cabin with the wild vines chmb- 

 ing over its walls and clinging to the mud-chinked crevices, 

 where I can hear the song of wild birds mingled with the 

 sleepy hum of bees moving from blossom to blossom about the 

 doorway; where I can see the timid red deer, as, peeping out of 

 the brush, it hesitates between the fear of man and the tempta- 

 tion of the white clover growing in front of my home, and where 

 I can watch the endless procession of waves following each other 

 up the bay. Give me the necessity of working for my daily 

 bread so that I will not feel as though I were a useless cum- 

 brance upon the earth; allow me an opportunity now and then 

 of doing a kindly act, even if it be no more than restoring to the 

 shelter of its mother's breast a fledgling that has fallen from 

 its nest in a tree top. If I may have these I will be happy, and 

 happier still if I could know that when the time comes for me 

 to travel the trail, the sands of which show no imprint of re- 

 turning footsteps, that I might be put to rest on the southern 

 slope of the ridge beside my camp, where the sunshine chases 

 iJie shadows around the birch tree, where the murmur of the 

 waves comes in rhythm to the robin's song, and where the red 

 deer play on moonhght nights. Neither will I feeir the snows 

 of winter that come drifting over the bay, driven by the 



