208 WILD LIFE IN HARD WEATHER 



join the stem ; thence the melted frost flows in 

 one broad stream down the fmTowed bark, and, 

 penetrating the snow, nourishes the gnarled 

 roots outspread beneath the soil. 



As I leave the village by the hard, slippery 

 path leading to the woods, the voices of street 

 and farm mingle with those of the fields. A 

 babel of sounds — the cackling of poultry, the 

 cooing of pigeons, and the lowing of cattle — 

 reaches my ears from the neighbom'hood of 

 home ; while near me, on the shelving rocks by 

 the river, a dipper sings cheerily as he splashes 

 and runs through the ripples ; and still nearer, 

 hopping in and out of hawthorn and ash, then 

 hiding in the " trash '' that still clothes the fence, 

 a lively wren, undismayed by the piercing cold 

 of the winter morning, trills his loud, audacious 

 lay — disproportionate as coming from such a 

 diminutive songster — and searches every likely 

 spot for the tit-bits of the day's first meal. 



The wren is ever an optimist ; in summer and 

 winter alike he is the same cheery philosopher, 

 apparently revelling, with a keen eye for humom-, 

 in circumstances which to others bring despair. 

 His actions are my only guide, however, and 

 though, like " the merryman, moping mum, who 

 sang because his heart was glum,'' the wren, in 

 his comical postures and whimsical ripples of 

 gladness, may possibly hide with a mask of 



