Ch'geegee-lokh-sts. 137 



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 eoes back to his birch 

 twigs. 



On summer clays he never overflows with the rol- 

 licksomeness of bobolink and oriole, but takes his 

 abundance in quiet contentment. I suspect it is 

 because he works harder winters, and his enjoyment 

 is more deep 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 leaves a bit of sunshine behind him. He goes 

 with you, as you force your way heavily through the 

 fir thickets on snowshoes. He is hungry, perhaps, 

 like you, but his note is none the less cheery and 

 hopeful. 



When the sun shines hot in August, he finds you 

 lying under the alders, with the lake breeze in your 

 face, and he opens his eyes very wide and says: ''Tsic 

 a dcc-c-c? I saw you last winter. Those were hard 

 times. But it 's good to be here now." And when the 

 rain pours down, and the woods are drenched, and camp 

 life seems beastly altogether, he appears suddenly with 

 greeting cheery as the sunshine. ''Tsic a de-c-c-e ? 

 Don't you remember yesterday ? It rains, to be sure, 



