The way to the woods is blurred with a mist of driven snow that veils
the portal of the forest with its upblown curtain, and blots out all
paths, and gives to the familiar landmarks a ghostly unreality. The
quietude of the woods is disturbed by turbulent voices, the angry roar
and shriek of the wind, the groaning and clashing of writhing, tormented
trees. Over all, the sunned but unwarmed sky bends its blue arch, as
cold as the snowy fields and woods beneath it.
In such wild weather you are not tempted far abroad in quest of old
acquaintances of fields and woods, yet from the inhospitable woods some
of them come to you. Among them all, none is more welcome than that
feathered atom of life, the chickadee. With the same blithe note that
welcomed you to his woodland haunts in spring, in summer, and in
autumn, when he attended you with such charming familiarity, amusing you
with pretty acrobatic feats, as he flitted now before, now beside, now
above you, he hails you now, and asks that hospitality be extended to
him.
Set forth a feast of suet on the window-sill, and he will need no
bidding to come and partake of it. How daintily he helps himself to the
tiniest morsels, never cramming his bill with gross mouthfuls as do his
comrades at the board, the nuthatch and the downy woodpecker! They, like
unbidden guests, doubtful of welcome or of sufferance even, make the
most of time that may prove all too brief, and gorge themselves as
greedily as hungry tramps; while he, unscared by your face at the
window, tarries at his repast, pecking his crumbs with leisurely
satisfaction. You half expect to see him swept from your sight like a
thistledown by the gusty blast, but he holds bravely to his perch,
unruffled in spirit if not in feathers, and defies his fierce assailant
with his oft-repeated challenge.
As often as you spread the simple feast for him he will come and sit at
your board, a confiding guest, well assured of welcome, and will repay
you with an example of cheerful life in the midst of dreariness and
desolation. In the still, bright days, his cheery voice rings through
the frosty air, and when the thick veil of the snow falls in a wavering
slant from the low sky its muffled cadence still heartens you.
What an intense spark of vitality must it be that warms such a mite in
such an immensity of cold; that floats his little life in this deluge of
frigid air, and keeps him in song while we are dumb with shivering! If
our huge hulks were endowed with proportionate vitality, how easily we
might solve the mysteries of the frozen north!
On some February day, when the first promise of spring is drifted to you
in the soft south wind, the tenderness of spring is voiced in his
love-note, brief but full of melody, and sweet as the evening song of
the wood pewee. When the spring songsters come, he takes leave of you.
He has seen you safely through the winter, and departs to the woods on
affairs of his own. He is no longer a vagrant, but at home in his own
greenwood, yet as unfretted by the cares of housekeeping as he was by
the heavy weariness of winter.