person has "D.D." written after his name, we have a right to think that
he is trying to live so wisely that he can teach us how to be happier,
too. Of course Minister Chick had not earned those letters by studying
in college, like most parsons; but he had learned the secret of a happy
heart in his school in the woods.

Yes, he began his service by singing his name; but the real sermon he
preached by the deeds he did and the life he lived. So, while we listen
to his happy song, we can watch his busy hours, until we are acquainted
with the little black-capped minister who called himself "Chick, D.D."

Chick's Christmas-trees were decorated, and no house in the whole world
had one lovelier that morning than the hundreds that were all about him
as far as he could see. The dark-green branches of the pines and cedars
had held themselves out like arms waiting to be filled, and the snow had
been dropped on them in fluffy masses, by a quiet, windless storm. It
had been very soft and lovely that way--a world all white and green
below, with a sky of wonderful blue that the firs pointed to like
steeples. Then, as if that were not decoration enough, another storm had
come, and had put on the glitter that was brightest at the edge of the
forest where the sun shone on it. The second storm had covered the soft
white with dazzling ice. It had swept across the white-barked birch
trees and their purple-brown branches, and had left them shining all
over. It had dripped icicles from the tips of all the twigs that now
shone in the sunlight brighter than candles, and tinkled like little
bells, when the breezes clicked them together, in a tune that is called,
"Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm."

[Illustration: "_Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm._"]

That is the tune that played all about the black-capped bird as he
flitted out of the forest, singing, "Chick, D.D.," as he came. The
clear cold air and the exercise of flying after his night's sleep had
given Chick a good healthy appetite, and he had come out for his
breakfast.

He liked eggs very well, and there were, as he knew, plenty of them on
the birch trees, for many a time he had breakfasted there. Eggs with
shiny black shells, not so big as the head of a pin; so wee, indeed,
that it took a hundred of them or more to make a meal for even little
Chick.

But he wasn't lazy. He didn't have to have eggs cooked and brought to
his table. He loved to hunt for them, and they were never too