'ti}t &ai of ii}t B^<xxC^ 



chilled, and so exhausted that for a moment he lay 

 on his back in my open palm. Soon after there was 

 another soft tapping at the window, — and two little 

 redstarts were sharing our cheer and drying their 

 butterfly wings in our warmth. 



During the summer of 1903 one of the commonest 

 of the bird calls about the farm was the whistle of 

 the quails. A covey roosted down the hillside within 

 fifty yards of the house. Then came the winter, — 

 such a winter as the birds had never known. Since 

 then, just once have we heard the whistle of a quail, 

 and that, perhaps, was the call of one which a game 

 protective association had liberated in the woods 

 about two miles away. 



The birds and animals are not as weather-wise as 

 we; they cannot foretell as far ahead nor provide as 

 certainly against need, despite the popular notion to 

 the contrary. 



We point to the migrating birds, to the muskrat 

 houses, and the hoards of the squirrels, and say, 

 " How wise and far-sighted these nature-taught chil- 

 dren are ! " True, they are, but only for conditions 

 that are normal. Their wisdom does not cover the 

 exceptional. The gray squirrels did not provide for 



102 



