86 Bird-Land Echoes. 



as those of some far-off neighbor. This ciystal-clear, 

 cold January day, with the mercury almost at zero, I 

 found the robins on the south hill-side, and seldom 

 have they shown to better advantage. One was 

 perched in a sapling beech to which the leaves still 

 clung. It chirped at times so that its companions 

 could hear it, and was answered by them, as well as by 

 the nuthatches, a tree-creeper, some sparrows, and a 

 winter wren. It was a cozy, warm spot wherein these 

 birds had gathered, which, strangely enough, was filled 

 with music even when every bird was mute. This 

 robin was half concealed among the crisp beech 

 leaves, and these — not the birds about them — were 

 singing. The breeze caused them to tremble vio- 

 lently, and their thin edges were as harp-strings, the 

 wiry sound produced being smoothed by the crisp 

 rattling caused by the leaves' rapid contact with each 

 other. It was much like the click of butterflies' wings, 

 but greatly exaggerated. A simple sound, but a 

 sweet, wholesome one that made me think less of 

 the winter's rigor and recalled the recent warm au- 

 tumnal days. They were singing leaves, and the 

 robin watched them closely as he stood near by, and 

 chirped at times, as if to encourage them. Altogether 

 it made a pretty picture, one of those that human 

 skill has not yet transferred to a printed page ; and 

 our winter sunshine is full of just such beauty. 



How incomprehensible it is that any one should 

 speak of the few robins that venture to remain ! 

 Flocks of a hundred or more are not uncommon in 

 the depth of winter, and this recalls the fact that 



