THe Bay of the Zand 
us, sharing, as far as the double windows would allow, 
the cheer of our dining-room. We served them on the 
lilac bush outside the window, tying their suet on so 
that they could see us and we them during meal time. 
Perhaps it was mere suet, no feast of soul at all, that 
they got; but constantly, when our pie was opened, 
the birds began to sing, —a dainty dish indeed, sa- 
vory, wholesome, and good for our souls, 
There are states in the far Northwest where the 
porcupine is protected by law, as a last food resource 
for men lost and starving in the forests. Perhaps the 
porcupine was not designed by nature for any such 
purpose. Perhaps chickadee was not left behind by 
summer to feed our lost and starving hope through 
the cheerless months. But that is the use I make of 
him. He is summer's pledge to me. The woods are 
hollow, the winds chill, the earth cold and stiff, but 
there flits chickadee, and —I cannot lose faith, nor 
feel that this procession of bleak white days is alla 
funeral ! 
He is the only bird in my little world that I can find 
without fail three hundred and sixty-five days in the 
year. From December to the end of March he comes 
daily to my lilac bush for suet ; from April to early 
78 
