LVII 



THE CHICKADEE 



THE way to the woods is blurred with 

 a mist of driven snow that veils the 

 portal of the forest with its upblown 

 curtain, and blots out all paths, and gives 

 to the familiar landmarks a ghostly un- 

 reality. The quietude of the woods is 

 disturbed by turbulent voices, the angry 

 roar and shriek of the wind, the groaning 

 and clashing of writhing, tormented trees. 

 Over all, the sunned but unwarmed sky 

 bends its blue arch, as cold as the snowy 

 fields and woods beneath it. 



In such wild weather you are not 

 tempted far abroad in quest of old ac- 

 quaintances of fields and woods, yet from 

 the inh'ospitable woods some of them 

 come to you. Among them all, none is 

 more welcome than that feathered atom 

 of life, the chickadee. With the same 

 blithe note that welcomed you to his 

 woodland haunts in spring, in summer, 

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