DECEMBER OUT-OF-DOORS. 55 
—unless we include the red - bellied nut- 
hatches, whose frequent quaint twitterings 
should, perhaps, come under this head — 
were the chickadees and a single robin. The 
former 1 have down as uttering their sweet 
pheebe whistle— which I take to be cer- 
tainly their song, as distinguished from all 
their multifarious calls—on seven of the 
thirty-one days. They were more tuneful 
in January, and still more so in February; 
so that the titmouse, as becomes a creature 
so full of good humor and high spirits, may 
fairly be said to sing all winter long. The 
robin’s music was a pleasure quite unex- 
pected. I was out on Sunday, the 30th, for 
a few minutes’ stroll before breakfast, when 
the obliging stranger (I had not seen a robin 
for a fortnight, and did not see another for 
nearly two months) broke into song from a 
hill-top covered with pitch-pines. He was 
in excellent voice, and sang again and 
again. The morning invited music, — 
warm and cloudless, like an unusually fine 
morning in early April. 
For an entire week, indeed, the weather 
had seemed to be trying to outdo itself. I 
remember in particular the day before 
