Winter Bells. 35 



onstration. He who would know the joy of an 

 outing, whether in midwinter or during the 

 long and languid summer days, must have 

 evidence such as mine of a wild bird's confi- 

 dence. Thoreau's wood-chopper liked to have 

 the chickadees about him. Little wonder that 

 he did, for now while I am listening to the tink- 

 ling of merry winter bells, these birds come 

 near ; so near they look me directly in the face 

 and chirp, in a quizzical way, You here ? Noth- 

 ing more delightful than this in any welcome 

 among people in town. Yes, I am here, and 

 the bells ring on as sweetly as ever ; never tiring 

 of their own sweet music, nor can I ever, I feel, 

 grow weary of listening. Winter is but an empty 

 word to-day ; the cold gray clouds suggest no 

 chilling thoughts ; little it matters that the 

 branches of the trees are bare ; the winter bells 

 are ringing ! 



I hear the wrangling crows, so like mankind 

 in all their disagreeable ways, where they have 

 gathered along and on the river, and I can see 

 them, in my mind, wandering about that deso- 

 late scene, floating on the huge ice-rafts, scram- 

 bling for stray bits brought by the recent flood, 



