IN THE HEMLOCKS 43 



tifully 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 an- 

 cient brush fence and am fairly within the old hem- 

 locks, 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 remark- 

 able 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 gush- 

 ing 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 low, flitting from stump to stump and from 

 root to root, dodging in and out of his hiding- 

 places, and watching all intruders with a suspicious 

 eye. He has a very pert, almost comical look. 

 His tail stands more than perpendicular: it points 



