mainly upon seeds, as the snow-bird and song sparrow; on flesh, as the
hawks and crows; or on burrowing insects, as the nut-hatches and
woodpeckers.

Such are some of the solutions to the problem of life in winter which
the plants and animals about us have worked out; such some of the
forms which they undergo; the places which they inhabit.

To the thinking mind a knowledge of these solutions but begets other
and greater problems, such as how can a living thing be frozen solid
for weeks and yet retain vitality enough to fully recover? How can a
warm-blooded animal sleep for months without partaking of food or
drink? And greater than either, what is that which we call life?

I hold in my hand two objects, similar in size, color, organs,
everything--twins from the same mother in all outward respects. One
pulsates and throbs with that which we call "life." It possesses heat,
bodily motion, animal power. The other is cold, motionless, pulseless,
throbless--a thing of clay. What is that "life" which the one
possesses and the other lacks? Ah, there's the rub! With the wisest of
men we can only answer, "_Quien sabe?_" (Who knows?)

[Illustration: WINTER HOUSE OF MUSKRAT.]




BIRDS' NESTS

(FROM WAKE ROBIN.)[3]