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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 in the laboratory. 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 apparent suffering or inconvenience. He would come to, and croak, and look as wise as ever.

The north wind may blow,

bụt the muskrats are building; and it is by no means a cheerless prospect, this wood-and-meadow world of mine in the gray November light. The frost will not fall to-night as falls the plague on men; the brightness of the summer is gone, yet this chill gloom is not the sombre shadow of a pall. Nothing is dying in the fields: the grass-blades are wilting, the old leaves are falling, still no square foot of greensward will the winter kill, nor a single tree, perhaps, in my wood-lot. There will be no less of life next April because of this winter, unless, perchance, conditions altogether exceptional starve some of the winter birds. These suffer most; yet, as the seasons go, life even for the winter birds is comfortable and abundant.

The fence-rows and old pastures are full of berries that will keep the fires burning in the quail and partridge during the bitterest weather. Last February, however, 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 all. 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 fencerows and tangles for wild seeds, they seemed to have given up the struggle at once, although within easy reach of plenty.

The smaller birds of the winter, like the tree-sparrow and junco, feed upon the weeds and grasses that ripen unmolested along the roadsides and waste places. A mixed flock of these small birds lived several days last winter upon the seeds of the ragweed in my mowing.

. The weeds came up in the early fall after the field was laid down to clover and timothy. They threatened to choke out the grass. I looked at them, rising shoulder high and seedy over the greening field, and thought with dismay of how they would cover it by the next 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 treesparrows came, and there was a five-day shucking of ragweed-seed in the mowing, and five days of life and plenty.

Then I looked and thought again that, perhaps, into the original divine scheme of things were put even ragweeds. But then, perhaps, there was no original divine scheme of things. I don't know. As I watch the changing seasons, however, through the changeless years, I seem to find a scheme, a plan, a purpose, and there are weeds and winters in it; and it seems divine.

The muskrats are building; the last of the migrating geese have gone over; the wild mice have harvested

their acorns; the bees have clustered; the woodchucks are asleep; and the snap in the big hickory by the side of the house has crept down out of reach of the fingers of the frost. I will put on the storm-doors and the double windows. Even now the logs are blazing cheerily on the wide, warm hearth.

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THE OFFERING

BY OLIVE CECILIA JACKS

How have we fallen from our high estate,

O Lord! plunged down from heaven!
In wanton pride, in lust for empires great,

For riches have we striven.
Are these not dust and ashes in thy sight,

Swept by the wind and lost?
Have we not sinned against the Spirit's might,

Blasphemed the Holy Ghost?

What dost thou ask from all the sons of men?

Atonement for this wrong?
Behold, we lay upon thine altar, then,

A host twelve million strong:
Twelve million dead; they stand before thy face,

An offering for sin;
Their cry goes forth into the bounds of space;

They crowd thy courts within.

Our dead they are, — friend, foe, alike, - our dead;

On sodden battlefield
They laid them down; for us their blood was shed;

By their stripes were we healed;
For our transgressions were we smitten sore;

Slaughtered with shot and shell;
For us the chastisement of peace they bore,

Descending into hell.

Not theirs alone the atoning sacrifice:

Wives, mothers, at the call,
In unity of sorrow paid the price,

Gave of their best, their all:
One was the heartache, one the darkened home;

And one the company
Of living dead, who wait to see God come:

A mighty company.

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