rely wounded, although it still seemed to fly pretty well.
Immediately the eagles pursued it and no doubt struck it down, although
I did not see the result of the hunt. Anyhow, it flew past me up the
Valley, closely pursued.

One wild, stormy winter morning after five feet of snow had fallen on
the floor of the Valley and the flying flakes driven by a strong wind
still thickened the air, making darkness like the approach of night, I
sallied forth to see what I might learn and enjoy. It was impossible
to go very far without the aid of snow-shoes, but I found no great
difficulty in making my way to a part of the river where one of my
ouzels lived. I found him at home busy about his breakfast, apparently
unaware of anything uncomfortable in the weather. Presently he flew out
to a stone against which the icy current was beating, and turning his
back to the wind, sang as delightfully as a lark in springtime.

After spending an hour or two with my favorite, I made my way across the
Valley, boring and wallowing through the loose snow, to learn as much
as possible about the way the other birds were spending their time. In
winter one can always find them because they are then restricted to the
north side of the Valley, especially the Indian Canyon groves, which
from their peculiar exposure are the warmest.

I found most of the robins cowering on the lee side of the larger
branches of the trees, where the snow could not fall on them, while two
or three of the more venturesome were making desperate efforts to get at
the mistletoe berries by clinging to the underside of the snow-crowned
masses, back downward, something like woodpeckers. Every now and then
some of the loose snow was dislodged and sifted down on the hungry
birds, sending them screaming back to their companions in the grove,
shivering and muttering like cold, hungry children.

Some of the sparrows were busy scratching and pecking at the feet of
the larger trees where the snow had been shed off, gleaning seeds
and benumbed insects, joined now and then by a robin weary of his
unsuccessful efforts to get at the snow-covered mistletoe berries. The
brave woodpeckers were clinging to the snowless sides of the larger
boles and overarching branches of the camp trees, making short flights
from side to side of the grove, pecking now and then at the acorns they
had stored in the bark, and chattering aimlessly as if unable to keep
still, evidently putting in the time in a very