116 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 
branches of a white birch. Just as I begin to 
question my eyes, she flies into a plum-tree and I 
recognize the small brown head, the short finch 
bill, — for she belongs in pigeon-hole No. 4, — and 
the white triangular corners of the chewink tail. 
But on the instant she spies me, and away she flies, 
low over the ground to—TI never know where. 
Had she clapped on a magic cap she could not- 
have vanished more completely. I waste the best 
part of the morning hunting for her, and the next 
day begin the search again. 
Going along a narrow trail that serves as snow- 
shoe path in winter, in passing a dead tree top I 
start the usual number of white-throats, and as I 
turn the corner of the fence into the clearing — be- 
hold! — right before me, clinging to the side of a 
