The Lay of the Band 
and is retreating leisurely toward the south, wise 
thing! Muskrat is building a warm winter lodge; 
Chipmunk has already dug his but and ben, and so 
far down under the stone wall that a month of zeros 
could not break in; Whitefoot, the woodmouse, has 
stored the hollow poplar stub full of acorns, and has 
turned Robin’s deserted nest, near by, into a cosy 
house; and Chickadee, dear thing, Nature herself 
looks after him. There are plenty of provisions for 
the hunting, and a big piece of suet on my lilac bush. 
His clothes are warm, and he will hide his head under 
his wing in the elm-tree hole when the north wind 
doth blow, and never mind the weather. 
I shall not mind it either, not so much, anyway, 
on account of Chickadee. He lends me a deal of 
support. So do Chipmunk, Whitefoot, and Muskrat. 
This lodge of my muskrats in the meadow makes 
a difference, I am sure, of at least ten degrees in the 
mean temperature of my winter. How can the out- 
of-doors freeze entirely up with such a house as this 
at the middle of it? For in this house is life, warm 
life,— and fire. On the coldest day I can look out 
over the bleak white waste to where the house shows, 
a tiny mound in the snow, and I can see the fire burn, 
6 
