74 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



it little fears the cold. I have kept parrakeets out 

 through the blizzards and storms of a severe win- 

 ter, seeing them play and frolic in the snow as if 

 their natural home were an arctic tundra, instead 

 of a tropical forest. 



A friend of birds once planted many sprouts of 

 wild honeysuckle about his porch, and the follow- 

 ing summer two pairs of hummingbirds built their 

 nests in near-by apple trees; he transplanted 

 quantities of living woodbine to the garden fences, 

 and when the robins returned in the spring, after 

 having remained late the previous autumn feeding 

 on the succulent bunches of berries, no fewer than 

 ten pairs nested on and about the porch and yard. 



So my text of this, as of many other weeks is, — 

 study the food habits of the birds and stock your 

 waste places with their favourite berry or vine. 

 Your labour will be repaid a hundredfold in song 

 and in the society of the little winged comrades. 



Worn is the winter rug of white, 

 And in the snow-bare spots once more, 

 Glimpses of faint green grass in sight, — 

 Spring's footprints on the floor. 

 Spring here — by what magician's touch? 

 ? Twas winter scarce an hour ago. 

 And yet I should have guessed as much, — 

 Those footprints in the snow! 



Frank Dempster Sherman. 



