and addressing a small brown-leafed beech. 

 "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! 

 with a snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due 

 here to-morrow night ? " And then from within 

 the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came 

 an answer. Peep, peep, peep! small and shrill, 

 dropping into the silence of the woods and stir- 

 ring it as three small pebbles might drop into 

 the middle of a wide sleeping pond. 



It was one of those gray, heavy days of the 

 early winter — one of the vacant, spiritless days 

 of portent that wait hushed and numb before a 

 coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a 

 chickadee had heart enough to cheep. But little 

 Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since 

 the last week in February, throughout the 

 spring and the noisy summer on till this dreary 

 time, he had been cheerfully, continuously pip- 

 ing. This was his last call. 



Peep, peep, peep ! he piped in February ; Peep, 

 peep, peep ! in August ; Peep, peep, peep ! in De- 

 cember. But did he 1 



"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and 

 that only." 



"Not at all," I answer. 

 [34] 



