and there a
small cluster of saxifrage.

The violets would not open their blue eyes till the sunshine was warmer,
the columbines refused to dance with the boisterous east wind, the ferns
kept themselves rolled up in their brown flannel jackets, and little
Hepatica, with many another spring beauty, hid away in the woods, afraid
to venture out, in spite of the eager welcome awaiting them. But the
birds had come, punctual as ever, and the bluejays were screaming in
the orchard, robins were perking up their heads and tails as they went
house-hunting, purple finches in their little red hoods were feasting
on the spruce buds, and the faithful chip birds chirped gayly on the
grapevine trellis where they had lived all winter, warming their little
gray breasts against the southern side of the house when the sun shone,
and hiding under the evergreen boughs when the snow fell.

"That tree is a sort of bird's hotel," said Jill, looking out at the
tall spruce before her window, every spray now tipped with a soft green.
"They all go there to sleep and eat, and it has room for every one. It
is green when other trees die, the wind can't break it, and the snow
only makes it look prettier. It sings to me, and nods as if it knew I
loved it."

"We might call it 'The Holly Tree Inn,' as some of the cheap
eating-houses for poor people are called in the city, as my holly bush
grows at its foot for a sign. You can be the landlady, and feed your
feathery customers every day, till the hard times are over," said Mrs.
Minot, glad to see the child's enjoyment of the outer world from which
she had been shut so long.

Jill liked the fancy, and gladly strewed crumbs on the window ledge
for the chippies, who came confidingly to eat almost from her hand.
She threw out grain for the handsome jays, the jaunty robins, and the
neighbors' doves, who came with soft flight to trip about on their pink
feet, arching their shining necks as they cooed and pecked. Carrots
and cabbage-leaves also flew out of the window for the marauding gray
rabbit, last of all Jack's half-dozen, who led him a weary life of it
because they would _not_ stay in the Bunny-house, but undermined the
garden with their burrows, ate the neighbors' plants, and refused to
be caught till all but one ran away, to Jack's great relief. This old
fellow camped out for the winter, and seemed to get on very well among
the cats and the hens, who shared their stores with him, and he might
be seen