tS}^ (mu0ftraf0 are (gutfbin^ 



come a series of warm open winters with abundance 

 of food. 



Bad as the weather is, there are a few of the seed- 

 eating birds, like the quail, and some of the insect- 

 eaters, like the chickadee, who are so well provided 

 for that they can stay and survive the winter. But 

 the great majority of the birds, because they have no 

 storehouse nor barn, must take wing and fly away 

 from the lean and hungry cold. 



And I am glad to see them go. The thrilHng honk 

 of the flying wild geese out of the November sky 

 tells me that the hollow forests and closing bays of 

 the vast desolate north are empty now, except for 

 the few creatures that find food and shelter in the 

 snow. The wild geese pass, and I hear behind them 

 the clang of the arctic gates, the boom of the bolt — 

 then the long frozen silence. Yet it is not for long. 

 Soon the bar will slip back, the gates will swing wide, 

 and the wild geese will come honking over, swift to 

 the greening marshes of the arctic bays once more. 



Here in my own small woods and marshes there 

 is much getting ready, much comforting assurance 

 that Nature is quite equal to herself, that winter is 

 not approaching unawares. There will be great lack, 



9 



