This poet, though he live apart, Moved by a hospitable heart, Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land, Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray. Here was this atom in full breath Hurling defiance at vast death, This scrap of valor just for play Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, As if to shame my weak behavior. I greeted loud my little saviour: "Thou pet! what dost here? and what for? In these woods, thy small Labrador, At this pinch, wee San Salvador! What fire burns in that little chest, So frolic, stout, and self-possest? Didst steal the glow that lights the West? Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine: Ashes and black all hues outshine. Why are not diamonds black and gray, To ape thy dare-devil array? And I affirm the spacious North Exists to draw thy virtue forth. I think no virtue goes with size: The reason of all cowardice Is, that men are overgrown, And, to be valiant, must come down To the titmouse dimension." 'Tis good-will makes intelligence, And I began to catch the sense Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors, In the great woods, and prairie floors. I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, I, too, have a hole in a hollow tree. And I like less when summer beats With stifling beams on these retreats Than noontide twilights which snow makes With tempest of the blinding flakes: For well the soul, if stout within, Can arm impregnably the skin; And polar frost my frame defied, Made of the air that blows outside." With glad remembrance of my debt, I homeward turn. Farewell, my pet! When here again thy pilgrim comes, He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant O'er all that mass and minster vaunt: For men mishear thy call in spring, As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, Crying out of the hazel copse, "_Phe--be!_" And in winter, "_Chic-a-dee-dee!_" I think old Caesar must have heard In Northern Gaul my dauntless bird, And, echoed in some frosty wold, Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. And I shall write our annals new, And thank thee for a better clew: I, who dreamed not, when I came here, To find the antidote of fear, Now hear thee say in Roman key, "_Paean! Ve-ni, Vi-di, Vi-ci._" * * * * * SALTPETRE AS A SOURCE OF POWER. Every element of _strength_ in a civilized community demands special notice. The present material progress of nations brings us every day in contact with the application of power under various conditions, and the most thoughtless person is to some extent influenced mentally by the improvements, taking the places of older means and ways of adaptation, in the arts of life.