Wedel Ge DAB OON) BAL bale iN 47 
over one day a year, in ten years’ time these trees will be from twelve to 
fifteen feet high and will break the wind off your home and, on a cold 
wintry day, will reduce your fuel bill and, if you can be big enough to 
ignore the criticism of men and take God’s promise as a guide, your assist- 
ance will double and treble the quantity and quality of the birds at your 
home every year. 
Scotch pines I planted on a sticky clay field in the spring of 1914 have 
now grown into a lovely little forest, but the lower limbs are bent by the 
weight of from three to five thousand mourning doves that have roosted 
there during August, September and October of the last few summers. 
This beautiful frosty morning that father used to call “‘the 17th of 
Ireland,” I awoke before the stars had closed their eyes and how could 
I go to sleep again and miss such a musical feast, for that cardinal I had 
mentioned apparently had his voice focused right on my open window, 
saying in distinct tones: “Good cheer! Good cheer! Good cheer!”’ This 
is mingled with the low notes of the song sparrows and even the robins 
are trying to join in the chorus. The lovable mourning doves, one of 
God’s chief mourners, in low voices, are saying: “‘ Khoo-coo-coo!”’ 
In spite of all this, I will admit I was about to doze back into dream- 
land again when, all at once, the honking of at least a thousand wild 
geese seemed to echo from every spot on the premises saying: “‘Home 
again!” Really, my thoughts drifted nearly one-half century back to 
the morning we left Ohio, when a dear old Yankee by the name of Calvin 
Pease said to me: ‘‘Good-bye Jackie.”’ Then, as he gripped father’s 
hand, which I believe was for the last time, he said: “John, do you 
think you can make a living over in Canada for your big family?” 
Father apparently gripped his hand tighter and he looked him square 
in the face and replied: ‘‘Calvin, we are going to make more than a 
living—we are going to make a life,” but never did the interpretation of 
this statement ring louder in my living room than it did this morning, 
March 17, 1926. 
Jack Miner, 
Kingsville, Canada. 
