With the Winter Birds. 259 



intn it, when, as it appeared. the\- trod upon some 

 treacherous crust gathered about a low, projectiii"'- 

 twig. These beautiful birds were, of course, not 

 actually silent, but not every sound that comes 

 from a bird's throat can be called a song. I have 

 held that there is music in the cawing of a crow, 

 but I draw the line at my neighbor's peacock. The 

 horned larks were more than usually timid this 

 morning, and were quite forgotten when I reached 

 the woods. 



Later, as the shadow^s shortened and every frost- 

 gem faded from the sunny fields, the crested tit, that 

 embodiment of grace, mischief, and music, came 

 upon the scene. No author has yet done this grand 

 bird justice. It has not been classed among the 

 song-birds proper by those who must have the clamor 

 of a brass band ringing in their ears w^hile they write 

 of music. Perhaps it is not a song-bird, but had it 

 ever strayed to the wooded slopes of Walden pond, 

 Thoreau would have given it a bright page in our 

 literature. Not a song-bird, perhaps ; but let that 

 merry whistle sound through the leafless branches of 

 the old oaks, ring through the maze of uplifted limbs 

 of the beeches, or tremble along the weedy tangles 

 of neglected nooks, and your winter day needs no 

 further life to make it full as the overflowing sum- 

 mer. Heard to-day, it is a Christmas carol as full 

 of meaning as the best thought of a poet's cunning 

 brain. There is many another of these cold-defying 

 birds, yet how few^ know them ! Kinglets that lisp 

 their happiness in the face of a north wind ; a wren 



