iFtitntrs in TSTuir 203 



stout beak shaped very much like that of 

 a small woodpecker he rattles down the 

 bark. How excited he is getting. Look, 

 there comes a long borer who has done 

 the last of his destructive work. How 

 this nuthatch in his gray-blue overcoat 

 and his white necktie creeps over the 

 bark, darting his sharp bill into every 

 crack and crevice. He can walk straight 

 up the trunk, or out sideways, or hang 

 head down as we have seen. Always busy, 

 always seeking a louse or a borer. 



Whir-r-r, whistle, flutter ; here come a 

 flock of snow-birds. Junco is his real 

 name. They have lighted in the snow, 

 almost under your nose, but you can not 

 see one of them. The snow blinds one, 

 and they are so nearly white. Wait un- 

 til they move, then you will see the gray 

 upon their backs. There they go. Weed 

 seeds were not plenty here, so they are 



