I HEARD A BLUE BIRD 57 
did not build nor grow. Chickadees chic and 
dee-dee alertly but only a few of them. The 
fact is that we two campers-out are about the 
only inhabitants of this hill. Certainly we are 
the only ones that clearly enjoy it. And we do. 
We are in our element. 
We have seized the highest hill hereabouts 
and are industriously building our camp fire. 
The wind is high and is plainly carousing. The 
trees on my hill-crest are filled with all savage 
minstrelsy. Snow leaps into the sky in aerial 
gymnastics. The boughs bend and rejoice in 
the riot of which they find themselves a part. 
In a word, we are enshrined in music. The glee 
is on us as on the woods; and the storm has found 
in us congenial spirits. And what we living 
things lack in numbers we make up in ruddy 
joy. We swing the ax, we drag or pack the 
fallen trees, we pile the logs on the wind-swept 
hill, and we are getting hungry, and the steak 
is frozen which we brought for cooking. We 
scratch the match: we see the slow blaze scatter 
and ignite the dead twigs, the bits of bark, the 
wild locust thorns till the smoke surges in our 
faces and blinds our eyes; and the fun of the 
camp fire has begun. We shall be smoked bacon 
in due time but we shall be cured, which is more 
than can be said of many. When isn’t a camp 
fire a comfort and a joy for all those who care 
for the pristine pleasures of the field? But when 
cold weather is daggering about to hit the marrow 
