The Lay of He Band 
I said he is summer’s pledge, the token of hope 
to me. He isa lesson also. I don’t often find ser- 
mons in stones, because, no doubt, I look so little 
for the sermons, so little for the very stones. But I 
cannot help seeing chickadee, — and chickadee is all 
sermon. I hear him on a joyous May morning call- 
ing Chick-a-dee! dee! Chick-a-dee! dee !—brisk, 
bright, and cheery; or, soft and gentle as a caress, 
he whistles, Pha-ce-bee ! Pha-ee-bee! IT meet him 
again on the edge of a bleak, midwinter night. He 
is hungry and cold, and he calls, as I hasten along, 
Chick-a-dee! dee! Chick-a-dee! dee ! — brisk, bright, 
and cheery; or, soft and gentle as a caress, he 
whistles, Phae-ee-bee ! Phe-ce-bee ! 
Will you lend me your wings, chickadee, those in- 
visible wings on which you ride the winds of life so 
evenly? For I would hang my ill-balanced soul be- 
tween them, as your bird soul hangs, and fly as you 
fly. 
The abundant summer, the lean and wolfish winter, 
find chickadee cheerful and gentle. He is busier at 
some seasons than at others, with fewer chances 
for friendship. He almost disappears in the early 
summer. But this is because of family cares ; and 
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