Feathers in the tree.

Feathers in the tree.

Hope is the thing with feathers—that purchase in the soul and it gives you a smile—and sings the tune without the words and never stops—at all, and sweetest—in the gale is heard—and sore must be the storm—that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm—I've heard in the chilliest land and on the strangest sea—yet never in extremities, it asked a crumb of me.