of the leaves, peering to the right and left, now flitting
a few feet, now hopping as many, and warbling incessantly,
occasionally in a subdued tone, which sounds from a very indefinite
distance. When he has found a worm to his liking, he turns lengthwise
of the limb and and bruises its head with his beak before devouring
it.

As I enter the woods the slate-colored snowbird starts up before me
and chirps sharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almost metallic
in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not esteemed a snowbird at
all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter, and returns
again in spring, like the song sparrow, and is not in any way
associated with the cold and snow. So different are the habits of
birds in different localities. Even the crow does not winter here, and
is seldom seen after December or before March.

The snowbird, or "black chipping-bird," as it is known among the
farmers, is the finest architect of any of the ground-builders known
to me. The site of its nest is usually some low bank by the roadside,
near a wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially concealed
entrance, the exquisite structure is placed. Horse and cow hair are
plentifully used, imparting to the interior of the nest great symmetry
and firmness as well as softness.

Passing down through the maple arches, barely pausing to observe the
antics of a trio of squirrels,--two gray ones and a black one,--I
cross an ancient brush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks,
and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed nooks. In the deep moss
I tread as with muffled feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the
dim, almost religious light. The irreverent red squirrels, however,
run and snicker at my approach, or mock the solitude with their
ridiculous chattering and frisking.

This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter wren. This is the only
place and these the only woods in which I find him in this vicinity.
His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided by some marvelous
sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so small a bird,
and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy and plaintiveness. I
think of a tremulous vibrating tongue of silver. You may know it is
the song of a wren, from its gushing lyrical character; but you must
needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, especially while in the
act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground and the leaves;
he never ascends the tall trees, but keeps l