90 IN THE WHIMM MOUNTAINS. 
him sing from a living tree or bush, but always 
from a stump or a log, or from the root or 
branch of an overturned tree, —from some- 
thing, at least, of nearly his own color! The 
song is intrinsically one of the most beautiful, 
and in my ears it has the further merit of being 
forever associated with reminiscences of ram- 
blings among the White Hills. How well I 
remember an early morning hour at Profile 
Lake, when it came again and again across the 
water from the woods on Mount Cannon, under 
the Great Stone Face! 
Whichever way I walked, I was sure of the 
society of the snow-birds. ‘They hopped famil- 
larly across the railroad track in front of the 
Crawford House, and on the summit of Mount 
Washington were scurrying about among the 
rocks, opening and shutting their pretty white- 
bordered fans. Half-way up Mount Willard I 
sat down to rest on a stone, and after a minute 
or two out dropped a snow-bird at my feet, and 
ran across the road, trailing her wings. J looked 
under the bank for her nest, but, to my surprise, 
could find nothing of it. So I made sure of 
knowing the place again, and continued my 
tramp. Returning two hours later, I sat down 
upon the same bowlder, and watched for the 
1 True when written, but now needing to be qualified by one 
exception. See p. 226. 
