222 My Neighbor's Wood-Shed 



the odor of apple-blossoms. Purple finches 

 put enough melody in their lisping chirps to 

 warm the north side of the old oaks, and 

 what the Carolina wren thought of the 

 weather could be heard half a mile across 

 the meadows. Winter that chills a bird's 

 heart does not wander this far from the 

 Arftic Circle. So much for midwinter min- 

 strelsy in general, and a word now of that 

 merriest of them all, the dear old song- 

 sparrow. Since the country was settled he 

 has been the chief singer of the garden, the 

 leader of the choir that gathered in the door- 

 yards of old-time farms, the associate of the 

 wren and bluebird, chippy and the peewee, 

 all sweet singers in their simple way, but 

 fitful and fair-weather birds, that must needs 

 have summer to keep them in humor; but 

 the song-sparrow is unfaltering. If the 

 gooseberry hedge is not sufficient shelter, 

 it seeks the cedars or the quaint old box- 

 bush that stands like a fossilized sentinel by 

 the front door. " What is a little frost," it 

 asks, " that my comrades make such a fuss ?" 

 There is plenty and to spare of sunshine, if 

 not just here, down on the hill-side, and the 

 wind does not creep around every corner. 



