Never fear. Robin knows as well as you that the north wind doth blow, and is now far away on his journey to the South; Muskrat knows, too, and is building his warm winter lodge; Chipmunk has already made his bed deep down under the stone wall, where zero weather is unheard of; Whitefoot, the wood mouse, has stored his hollow poplar stub full of acorns, and, taking possession of Robin's deserted nest near by, has roofed it and lined it and turned it into a cosey, cold-proof house, while dear thing—has done nothing at all. Not so much as a bug or a single beetle's egg has he stored Not so much as a bug or a single beetle's egg has he stored: Why not, seeing that these are his food?") ?> up for the winter. But he knows where there is a big piece of suet for him on a certain lilac bush. a piece of suet for him on a certain lilac bush: Whose bush might it be? Is there a piece on yours?") ?> And he knows where there is a snug little hole in a certain elm tree limb. The north wind may blow, blow, blow! It cannot get through Chickadee's feathers, nor daunt for one moment his brave little heart.
The north wind sweeping the bare stubble fields and winding its shivering horn through the leafless trees does sometimes pierce my warm coat and strike a chill into my heart. Then how empty and cold seems the outdoor world! How deadly the touch of the winter! How fearful the prospect of the coming cold!
Does Muskrat think so? Does Whitefoot? Does Chickadee? Not at all, for they are ready.
The preparations for hard weather may be seen going on all through the autumn, beginning as far back as the flocking of the swallows late in July. Up to that time no one had thought of a coming winter, it would seem; but, one day, there upon the were the swallows—the first sign that the getting ready for winter has begun. upon the telegraph-wires were the swallows—the first sign that the getting ready for winter has begun: What kind or kinds of swallows? Have you any earlier sign?") ?>
The great migratory movements of the birds are very mysterious; but they were in the beginning, I think, and are still, for the most part, mere shifts to escape the cold. Yet not so much to escape the cold itself do the birds migrate, as to find a land of food. When the northland freezes, when river and lake are sealed beneath the ice and the soil is made hard as flint, then the food supplies for most of the birds are utterly cut off, causing them to move southward ahead of the cold, or starve.
There are, however, a few of the seed-eating birds, like the quail, and some of the insect-eaters, like the chickadee, who are so well provided for that they can stay and survive the winter. But the great majority of the birds, because they have no storehouse nor barn, must take wing and fly away from the lean and hungry cold.
And I am glad to see them go. The thrilling honk of the flying wild geese out of the November sky tells me that the hollow forests and closing bays of the vast desolate North are empty now, except for the few creatures that find food and shelter in the snow. the few creatures that find food and shelter in the snow: Name four of the animals that so find their food and shelter. Are there any others? Look them up.") ?>
Here in my own small woods and marshes there is much getting ready, much comforting assurance that Nature is quite equal to herself, that winter is not approaching unawares. There will be great lack, no doubt, before there is plenty again; there will be suffering and death. there will be suffering and death: In your tramps afield this winter look out for signs of suffering. There are many little things that you can do to lessen it—a little seed scattered, a piece of suet nailed up on a tree, a place cleared in the snow where gravel stones can be picked up.") ?> But what with the building, the strange deep sleeping, and the harvesting, there will be also much comfortable, much joyous and sociable, living.
Long before the muskrats began to build, even before the swallows commenced to flock, my chipmunks started their winter stores. I don't know which began his work first, which kept harder at it, Chipmunk or the provident ant. The ant has a great reputation for thrift, and verses have been written about her. But Chipmunk is just as thrifty. So is the busy bee.
", "It is the thought of approaching winter that keeps the bee busy far beyond her summer needs. Much of her labor is entirely for the winter. By the first of August she has filled the brood chamber of the hive with honey—forty pounds of it, enough for the hatching bees and for the whole colony until the willows tassel again. But who knows what the winter may be? how cold and long drawn out into the coming May? So the harvesting is pushed with vigor on, until the frosts kill the last of the autumn asters—on, until fifty, a hundred, or even three hundred pounds of honey or even three hundred pounds of honey: By not allowing the bees to swarm, and thus divide their strength, bee-keepers often get more than three hundred pounds of comb-honey (in the little pound boxes or sections) from a single hive. The bees themselves require only about twenty to twenty-five pounds to carry them through the winter.") ?> are sealed in the combs, and the colony is safe should the sun not shine again for a year and a day.
The last of the asters have long since gone; so have the witch-hazels. the witch-hazels: The witch-hazels do not yield honey so far as the author has observed. Suppose you watch this autumn to see if the honey-bees (do you know a honey-bee when you see her?) visit it.") ?> All is quiet about the hives. The bees have formed into their warm winter clusters upon the combs; and except "when come the calm, mild days," \"when come the calm, mild days\": Whence comes this quotation? From which poem of Bryant's?" ?> they will fly no more until March or April. I will half close their entrances—and so help them to put on their storm-doors. put on their storm-doors: In modern bee-hives there is a movable board in front upon which the bees alight when entering the hive; this can be so turned as to make a large doorway for the summer, and a small entrance for the cold winter.") ?>
The whole out of doors around me is like a great beehive, stored and sealed for the winter, its swarming life close-clustered, and safe and warm against the coming cold.
I stand along the edge of the hillside here and look down the length of its frozen slope. There is no sign of life. The brown leaves have drifted into the mouths of the woodchuck holes, as if every burrow were forsaken; sand and sticks have washed in, too, littering and choking the doorways. A stranger would find it hard to believe that all of my forty-six woodchucks all of my forty-six woodchucks: The author at one time had forty-six inhabited woodchuck holes on his farm.") ?> are gently snoring at the bottoms of these old uninteresting holes. Yet here they are, and quite out of danger, sleeping the sleep of the furry, the fat, and the forgetful.
The woodchuck's manner of providing for winter is very curious. Winter spreads far and fast, and Woodchuck, in order to keep ahead, out of danger, would need wings. But wings weren't given him. Must he perish then? Winter spreads far, but it does not go deep—down only about four feet; and Woodchuck, if he cannot escape overland, can, perhaps, escape under land. So down he goes through the winter, down into a mild and even temperature, five feet away —only five feet, but as far away from the snow and the cold as Bobolink among the reeds of the distant Orinoco. as Bobolink among the reeds of the distant Orinoco: The bobolink winters even farther south—beyond the banks of the Amazon.") ?>
Indeed, Woodchuck's is a farther journey and even more wonderful than Bobolink's; for these five feet carry him to the very gates of death. That he will return with Bobolink, that he will come up alive with the spring out of this dark way, is passing strange.
Muskrat built him a house, and under the spreading ice turned all the meadow into a well-stocked cellar. Beaver built him a dam, cut and anchored under water a plenty of green sticks near his lodge, so that he too would be under cover when the ice formed, with an abundance of tender bark at hand. Chipmunk spent half of his summer laying up food near his underground nest. But Woodchuck simply digged him a hole,—a grave,—then ate until no particle more of fat could be got within his baggy hide, then crawled into his bed to sleep until the dawn of spring! to sleep until the dawn of spring: What is the name for this strange sleeping? What other American animals do it? Name three.") ?>
", "This is his shift! This is the length to which he goes, because he has no wings, and because he cut, cure, and store away, in the depths of the stony hillside, clover hay enough to last him through the winter. The beaver cans his fresh food in cold water; the chipmunk selects long-keeping things and buries them; but the woodchuck simply fattens himself, then buries himself, and sleeps—and lives!
but what good reason is there for our being daunted at the prospect? Robin and all the others are well prepared. Even the wingless frog, who is also without fur or feathers or fat, even he has no fear at the sound of the cold winds. Nature provides for him, too, in her own motherly way. All he has to do is to dig into the mud at the bottom of the ditch and sleep—and sometimes freeze!
No matter. If the cold works down and freezes him into the mud, he never knows. He will thaw out as good as new; he will sing again for joy and love as soon as his heart warms up enough to beat. I have seen frogs frozen into the middle of solid lumps of ice. frogs frozen into the middle of solid lumps of ice: Of course, this was never done intentionally: each time the frogs were forgotten and left in the laboratory, where they froze.") ?> Drop the lump on the floor, and the frog would break out like a fragment of the ice itself. And this has happened more than once to the same frog without causing him the least ache or pain. He would gradually limber up, and croak, and look as wise as ever.
The north wind may blow, for it is by no means a cheerless prospect, this wood-and-meadow world of mine in the gray November light. The grass-blades are wilting, the old leaves are falling; but no square foot of greensward will the winter kill, nor a single tree perhaps in all my wood-lot. There will be little less of life next April because of this winter. The winter birds will suffer most, and a few may die.
Last February, I came upon two partridges in the snow, dead of hunger and cold. It was after an extremely long "severe spell"; but this was not the only cause. These two birds since fall had been feeding regularly in the dried fodder corn that stood shocked over the field. One day all the corn was carted away. The birds found their supply of food suddenly cut off, and, unused to foraging the fence-rows and tangles for wild seeds, they seem to have given up the struggle at once, they seem to have given up the struggle at once . . . : This may not be the explanation. One of the author's friends suggests that it may have been caused by exposure, due to their having been frightened in the night from their usual bed and thus forced to roost where they could until morning.") ?> although within easy reach of plenty.
Hardly a minute's flight away was a great thicket of dwarf sumac covered with berries. There were bayberries, rose-hips, greenbrier, bittersweet, black alder, and checkerberries that they might have found. These berries would have been hard fare, doubtless, after an unstinted supply of sweet corn; but still they were plentiful and would have been sufficient had the birds made use of them.
The smaller birds that stay through the winter, like the tree sparrow and the junco, feed upon the weeds and grasses that ripen unmolested along the roadsides and in the waste places. A mixed flock of these small birds lived several days last winter upon the seeds of the ragweed in my mowing-field.
", "The weeds came up in the early fall after the field was sowed to clover and timothy. timothy: \"Herd's-grass\" or \"English hay\"—as it is sometimes called in New England.") ?> They threatened to choke out the grass. I looked at them and thought with dismay of how they would cover the field by another fall. After a time the snow came, a foot and a half of it, till only the tops of the seedy ragweeds showed above the level white. Then the juncos, goldfinches, and tree sparrows came; and there was a five-day shucking of ragweed seed on the crusty snow—five days of life and plenty for the birds. plenty for the birds: What are the \"weeds\" made for? You growl when you are set to pulling them in the garden. What are they made for? Can you answer?") ?>
Then I looked again, and thought that weeds and winters, which were made when the world was made—that even ragweeds and winters have a part in the beautiful divine scheme of things.
but the wild geese are going over; the wild mice have harvested their acorns; the bees have clustered; the woodchucks have gone to sleep; the muskrats have nearly finished their lodge; the sap in the big hickory tree by the side of the house has crept down out of reach of the fingers of the frost. And what has become of Robin, poor thing?