t. It
moved me through and through. How could it do so much, when it was so
simple? I did not know how to tell it in words, but I felt it in my
boyish soul. It expressed all the wild-wood life and spirit, the joy of
living, the happy brightness of the day, the thrill of the coming
spring, the glory of flight; all, all it seemed to voice in its simple
ringing, "_kee-o, kee-o, kee-o, kee-yi-o_"; never before had I seen a
bird so evidently rejoicing in his flight; then singing, it sailed away
from sight; but the song has lingered ever since in the blessed part of
my memory. I often heard it afterward, and many times caught the
Blue-jay in a feeble imitation of its trumpet note. I never forgot the
exact timbre of that woodland call; so when at length, long after, I
traced it to what is known in books as the "Red-shouldered Hawk," it was
a little triumph and a little disappointment. The books made it all so
commonplace. They say it has a loud call like "kee-o"; but they do not
say that it has a bugle note that can stir your very soul if you love
the wild things, and voices more than any other thing on wings the glory
of flight, the blessedness of being alive.

To-day, as I write, is December 2, 1917; and this morning as I walked in
my homeland, a sailing, splendid hawk came pouring out the old refrain,
"_kee-yi-o, kee-yi-o, kee-oh_." Oh, it was glorious! I felt little
prickles in the roots of my hair as he went over; and I rejoiced above
all things to realize that he sang just as well as, yes maybe a little
better than that first one did, that I heard in the winter woods some
forty years ago.

TALE 58

The Fingerboard Goldenrod

"Oh, Mother Carey! All-mother! Lover of us little plants as well as the
big trees! Listen to us little slender Goldenrods.

"We want to be famous, Mother Carey, but our stems are so little and our
gold is so small, that we cannot count in the great golden show of
autumn, for that is the glory of our tall cousins. They do not need us,
and they do not want us. Won't you give us a little job all our own, our
very own, for we long to be doing something?"

[Illustration: The Compass Goldenrod Pointing Toward the North]

Then Mother Carey smiled so softly and sweetly and said: "Little slender
Goldenrods, I am going to give you something to do that will win you
great honour among all who understand. In the thick woods the moss on
the trunk shows the north side; when the tree is alone and in the op