WHEN THE DAYS BEGIN TO LENGTHEN 



In the woods in winter one is more apt to hear 

 chirpings or twitterings and prosaic calls than 

 song. But hark! there is a genuine carol. Not 

 of a very high order perhaps, but a song neverthe- 

 less ; bright and cheery and evidently of great sat- 

 isfaction to the performer himself. It proceeds 

 from the throat of that happy little chickadee over 

 in the hedge just opposite. See him as he sways 

 with all the airs of a conservatory graduate. 

 Bless his little heart, I believe he is carolling a 

 greeting to us. Chickadees are among the most 

 sociable of my restaurant guests. They frequent- 

 ly take advantage of the open window to step 

 from Balsam Bough Tavern precincts right into 

 my den. 



Here is a little group of visitors not to be met 

 with every winter day. They are crossbills, and 

 I occasionally have the honor of welcoming them 

 to my little hostelry. The sight of the twisted bill 

 always recalls to one's mind the tender legend of 

 the little bird striving to draw the ruthless iron 

 nail from the Saviour's pierced palm. 



Stained with blood and never tiring, 

 With its beak it doth not cease. 



From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, 

 Its Creator's Son release. 



[107] 



