wind. If he would go back to his starting point while the March
winds are out, he must needs come down close to the ground and
yewyaw towards his objective, making leeway like an old boat
without ballast or centerboard.

The grouse have taken to bud-eating from necessity--birch buds
mostly, with occasional trips to the orchards for variety. They
live much now in the trees, which they dislike; but with a score
of hungry enemies prowling for them day and night, what can a
poor grouse do?

When a belated snow falls, you follow their particular enemy, the
fox, where he wanders, wanders, wander's on his night's hunting.
Across the meadow, to dine on the remembrance of field
mice--alas! safe now under the crust; along the brook, where he
once caught frogs; through the thicket, where the grouse were
hatched; past the bullbrier tangle, where the covey of quail once
rested nightly; into the farmyard, where the dog is loose and the
chickens are safe under lock and key, instead of roosting in
trees; across the highway, and through the swamp, and into the
big bare empty woods; till in the sad gray morning light he digs
under the wild apple tree and sits down on the snow to eat a
frozen apple, lest his stomach cry too loudly while he sleeps the
day away and tries to forget that he is hungry.

Everywhere it is the same story: hard times and poor hunting.
Even the chickadees are hard pressed to keep up appearances and
have their sweet love note ready at the first smell of spring in
the air.