200 A DECEMBER DAY WITH THE BIRDS. 



of some sorrow. One cannot help thinking of a 

 wandering dryad seeking her lost love. The song 

 recalls all the sad romances one has ever read, and 

 perhaps several in which one was, one's self, the 

 chief actor as well as the chief sufferer. 



Those plaintive minor notes still lingering in 

 my ears, I seek another part of the woods, beguil- 

 ing the time as I saunter, by watching the gambols 

 of the nuthatches as they go tobogganing up and 

 down the trunks of the trees. It is surprising how 

 many old friends I meet here. Presently I pull 

 myself through the tangle of bushes, and find a 

 seat on a half-decayed log in a somewhat open 

 space, shut in on all sides by the thicket. The 

 sunshine filters through the branches above me, 

 making a filigree of light and shade on the leaf- 

 strewn ground. My feathered companions become 

 greatly excited over my presence ; apparently they 

 have never before seen a man sitting on a log in 

 the woods, and are dumfounded. What a birds' 

 drama is enacted before me ! 



First, the j uncos, as the snowbirds are often 

 called, dart into my retreat, and scurry around 

 nervously, looking up at me with a bewilderment 

 that cannot be expressed. A half-dozen tree spar- 

 rows alight in the bushes only a few yards away, 



