Frost Foliage. 21 



four degrees in the night, but the birds' spirits 

 did not sink in proportion. Winter is outside 

 of their feathers and there it is welcome. If it 

 steals their food, the birds laugh at their ill luck 

 and steal a march on winter. A few wing- 

 beats and the matter is mended. Who cares? 

 is the theme of every one of them, and man, 

 muffled in furs and shivering over a fire, calls 

 himself the lord of creation. So he is, but 

 until he is as independent as the birds there is 

 one spoke lacking to perfect his wheel. 



My little camp-fire was a new world to me, 

 and, as it seemed, a new world to the friends 

 that flocked about me. Here came the two 

 nuthatches and the brown creeper ; the Caro- 

 lina wren and the winter wren from northward ; 

 the golden-crowned kinglet and tree-sparrows ; 

 the chickadee and his crested cousin, and, as if 

 to overlook them and warn of my hostile in- 

 tentions, if I had any, came two chattering 

 jays. I sat still for a while, and every one of 

 these birds seemed to enjoy a smoke-bath. The 

 curling, thread-like cloud no sooner reached the 

 lower branches of the trees than the birds 

 flitted through it, and then chattered in great 



