wilderness. The smoke of your camp-fire 



has hardly risen to the spruce tops, when 



close beside you sounds the same cheerful {^'deedee-IoAhsis 



greeting and inquiry for your health. There 



he is on the birch twig, bright and happy 



and fearless ! He comes down by the fire 



to see if anything has boiled over, which he 



may dispose of. He picks up gratefully the 



crumbs you scatter at your feet. He trusts 



you. — See ! he rests a moment on the finger 



you extend, looks curiously at the nail, and 



sounds it with his bill to see if it shelters 



any harmful insect. Then he goes back to 



his birch twigs. 



On summer days he never overflows with 

 the rollicksomeness of bobolink and oriole, 

 but takes his abundance in quiet content- 

 ment. I suspect it is because he works 

 harder winters, and his enjoyment is deeper 

 than theirs. In winter, when the snow lies 

 deep, he is the life of the forest. He calls to 

 you from the edges of the bleak caribou 

 barrens, and his greeting somehow suggests 

 the May. He comes into your rude bark 

 camp, and eats of your simple fare, and 



