IN THE ICE-CLAD WOODS. 151 



be that "crack" tobogganist, the white-breasted 

 nuthatch, the bird that dashes up and down 

 the tree boles at his own sweet will, crying 

 " Yank ! yank ! " in his confiding alto, or 

 " Kick ! kick ! '• in his petulant soprano as you 

 approach his haunt. 



He has no fear of the blood rushing to his 

 brain, for he really seems to prefer sliding down 

 the trunks of the trees headfirst to hitching 

 upward ; and almost always, when he wants to 

 chisel out a grub or a seed from the bark, he 

 stands above it and works with his head down- 

 ward. No doubt he can deliver harder blows 

 in that position than in any other, just as a 

 woodchopper always prefers to have the stick 

 of wood he is cutting on a lower plane than he 

 himself occupies. But how my feathered car- 

 penter does exert himself, hammering, filing, 

 prying, poking, until I am afraid he will break 

 off the point of his slender pickax ! He some- 

 times almost jerks himself loose from the bark, 

 firm a hold as he is able to take with his stout 

 little claws, and one can often hear the sound 

 of his pounding quite a distance away. 



On the day referred to the nuthatches per- 

 formed their skating exploits on the western 

 side of the trees, which were not coated with 

 ice. They are unlike boys and gii-ls in that re- 



