bird's making himself too common;
and probably it is true even of the great _prima donna_ that it is not
those who live in the house with her who find most pleasure in her
music. Moreover, there is much in time and circumstance. You hear a song
in the village street, and pass along unmoved; but stand in the silence
of the forest, with your feet in a bed of creeping snowberry and oxalis,
and the same song goes to your very soul.

The great distinction of the winter wren's melody is its marked rhythm
and accent, which give it a martial, fife-like character. Note tumbles
over note in the true wren manner, and the strain comes to an end so
suddenly that for the first few times you are likely to think that the
bird has been interrupted. In the middle is a long in-drawn note, much
like one of the canary's. The odd little creature does not get far away
from the ground. I have never seen him sing from a living tree or bush,
but always from a stump or a log, or from the root or branch of an
overturned tree,--from something, at least, of nearly his own color.[11]
The song is intrinsically one of the most beautiful, and in my ears it
has the further merit of being forever associated with reminiscences of
ramblings among the White Hills. How well I remember an early morning
hour at Profile Lake, when it came again and again across the water from
the woods on Mount Cannon, under the Great Stone Face!

Whichever way I walked, I was sure of the society of the snow-birds.
They hopped familiarly across the railroad track in front of the
Crawford House, and on the summit of Mount Washington were scurrying
about among the rocks, opening and shutting their pretty white-bordered
fans. Half-way up Mount Willard I sat down to rest on a stone, and after
a minute or two out dropped a snow-bird at my feet, and ran across the
road, trailing her wings. I looked under the bank for her nest, but, to
my surprise, could find nothing of it. So I made sure of knowing the
place again, and continued my tramp. Returning two hours later, I sat
down upon the same bowlder, and watched for the bird to appear as
before; but she had gathered courage from my former failure,--or so it
seemed,--and I waited in vain till I rapped upon the ground over her
head. Then she scrambled out and limped away, repeating her innocent but
hackneyed ruse. This time I was resolved not to be baffled. The nest was
there, and I would find it. So down on my knees I got, and scrutinize