68 



THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



adee, dear thing — has done nothing at all. Not so 



much as a bug or a single beetle's egg has he stored 



up for the winter. But he knows where there is a 



big piece of suet 



for him on a 



certain 



lilac 



bush. - 



And he 



knows 



where there is a 



snuar little hole in 



a certain elm tree limb. The north wind may blow, 



blow, blow ! It cannot get through Chickadee's 



feathers, nor daunt for one moment his brave little 



heart. 



The north wind sweeping the bare stubble fields 

 and winding its shivering horn through the leafless 

 trees does sometimes pierce my warm coat and strike 

 a chill into my heart. Then how empty and cold seems 

 the outdoor world ! How deadly the touch of the win- 

 ter ! How fearful the prospect of the coming cold ! 



Does Muskrat think so ? Does Whitef oot ? Does 

 Chickadee ? Not at all, for they are ready. 



The preparations for hard weather may be seen 

 going on all through the autumn, beginning as far 

 back as the flocking of the swallows late in July. Up 

 to that time no one had thought of a coming winter, 

 it would seemj but, one day, there upon the tele- 



