“Because it’s the day before Christmas,” twittered Snow Bunting.  “And you’re going to give a Christmas party,” chirped the Robin.  “And you want us all to come!” said Downy Woodpecker.  “Hurrah!  Three cheers for Mrs. Chickadee!”

“Hush!” said Mrs. Chickadee, “and I’ll tell you all about it.  To-morrow is Christmas Day, but I don’t want to give a party.”

“Chee, chee, chee!” cried Robin Rusty-breast; “chee, chee, chee!”

“Just listen to my little plan,” said Mrs. Chickadee, “for, indeed, I want you all to help.  How many remember Thistle Goldfinch—­the happy little fellow who floated over the meadows through the summer and fall?”

“Cheerup, chee-chee, cheerup, chee-chee, I do,” sang the Robin; “how he loved to sway on thistletops!”

“Yes,” said Downy Woodpecker, “and didn’t he sing?  All about blue skies, and sunshine and happy days, with his ‘Swee-e-et-sweet-swe
et-sweet-a-twitter-witter-witter-witter-wee-twea!’”

“Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee,” said Snow Bunting.  “We’ve all heard of Thistle Goldfinch, but what can he have to do with your Christmas party?  He’s away down South now, and wouldn’t care if you gave a dozen parties.”

“Oh, but he isn’t; he’s right in these very woods!”

“Why, you don’t mean—­”

“Indeed I do mean it, every single word.  Yesterday I was flitting about among the trees, peeking at a dead branch here, and a bit of moss there, and before I knew it I found myself away over at the other side of the woods!  ‘Chickadee-dee-dee, chickadee-dee-dee!’ I sang, as I turned my bill toward home.  Just then I heard the saddest little voice pipe out:  ‘Dear-ie me!  Dear-ie me!’ and there on the sunny side of a branch perched a lonesome bit of yellowish down.  I went up to see what it was, and found dear little Thistle Goldfinch!  He was very glad to see me, and soon told his short story.  Through the summer Papa and Mamma Goldfinch and all the brothers and sisters had a fine time, singing together, fluttering over thistletops, or floating through the balmy air.  But when ‘little Jack Frost walked through the trees,’ Papa Goldfinch said:  ‘It is high time we went South!’ All were ready but Thistle; he wanted to stay through the winter, and begged so hard that Papa Goldfinch soberly said:  ’Try it, my son, but do find a warm place to stay in at night.’  Then off they flew, and Thistle was alone.  For a while he was happy.  The sun shone warm through the middle of the day, and there were fields and meadows full of seeds.  You all remember how sweetly he sang for us then.  But by and by the cold North Wind came whistling through the trees, and chilly Thistle woke up one gray morning to find the air full of whirling snowflakes He didn’t mind the light snows, golden-rod and some high grasses were too tall to be easily covered, and he got seeds from them.  But now that the heavy snows have come, the poor little fellow is almost starved, and if he doesn’t have a warm place to sleep in these cold nights, he’ll surely die!”