is musical with the song of birds.

"The trees, through whose bare branches the wind all winter has
whistled and shrieked, are now sending forth leaves of tender green and
the voice of the wind caressing them is softened to a tone as musical
as the song of birds. Flowers are springing up, not in the rigid rows
or precise squares of a mechanically inclined horticulturist, but
surprising one by elbowing themselves out of the narrowest crevices, or
peeping bashfully out from behind fallen trees, or clinging almost
upside down to the side of an overhanging cliff.

"My camp on Rainy Lake faces the south and in front is a little stunted
black ash tree, so dwarfed, gnarled, twisted, and homely that it is
almost pretty. I refrained from cutting it down because of its
attractive deformity. In the springtime, a few years ago, a pair of
robins chose it as their nesting place. One bright Sunday morning, as
the nest was in course of construction, I was sitting in my doorway
watching the pair. The brisk little husband was hurrying toward the
nest with a bit of moss; but the mild sun, the crisp air, the sweet
breathing earth, the gently whispering trees seemed to make him so very
happy he could not but tell of it. Alighting on a twig he dropped the
moss, opened his beak, and poured forth in song the joy his little body
could no longer contain. That is the joy of a northern No-Man's Land
in the month of May.

"We are so happy in our woodland home that we wish everyone might share
it with us. But perhaps some would not enjoy what we enjoy, or see
what we see, and some are prevented from coming by the duties of other
callings, and each must follow the pathway his feet are most fitted to
tread. For myself, I only want my little log cabin with the wild vines