e. It is another
tribute to the bright little bird's influence.

Chickadee wears well. He is not in the least a creature of moods. You
step out of your door some bright morning, and there he is among the
shrubs, flitting from twig to twig; now hanging head down from the
very tip to look into a terminal bud; now winding upward about a
branch, looking industriously into every bud and crevice. An insect
must hide well to escape those bright eyes. He is helping you raise
your plants. He looks up brightly as you approach, hops fearlessly
down and looks at you with frank, innocent eyes. _Chick a dee dee dee
dee! Tsic a de-e-e?_--this last with a rising inflection, as if he
were asking how you were, after he had said good-morning. Then he
turns to his insect hunting again, for he never wastes more than a
moment talking. But he twitters sociably as he works.

You meet him again in the depths of the wilderness. The smoke of your
camp fire has hardly risen to the spruce tops when close beside you
sounds the same cheerful greeting and inquiry for your health. There
he is on the birch twig, bright and happy and fearless! He comes down
by the fire to see if anything has boiled over which he may dispose
of. He picks up gratefully the crumbs you scatter at your feet. He
trusts you.--See! he rests a moment on 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 goes back to his birch twigs.

On summer days he never overflows with the rollicksomeness 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 dee-e-e?_ 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 lif