48 IN BIRD LAND. 
a large oak-tree at the border of the woods. Pres- 
ently he cried, Yank! yank / as if to announce a 
discovery. ‘Then he pecked and pried with all his 
might, until at length he drew a grain of corn out 
of acrevice of the bark, placed it ina shallow pocket 
on the other side of the tree, and began to pick it 
to pieces, swallowing the fragments as he broke them 
off. When this grain had been disposed of, he 
found another, and then another, until his hunger 
seemed to be appeased, when he darted off into 
the woods. 
Other pedestrians and observers may differ from 
me both in temperament and habits, but to my 
mind nothing could be more delightful than a 
ramble in a snow-storm. Let the wind blow a gale 
from the west, driving the cold pellets blindingly 
into your face, and trying to rob you of your over- 
coat and cap; yet, if you have -the spirit of the 
genuine rambler, your blood will tingle with delight, 
as well as with a sense of masterly overcoming, as 
you plod along; while you feel that every fierce gust 
that strikes you is only one of Nature’s love-taps, — 
a little rough, it is true, but for that very reason all 
the more expressive of affection. Stalking forth 
into the teeth of a winter storm develops the hardy 
traits of character, and puts the ingredients from 
which heroes are made into the pulsing veins. 
Many atime, as I have pushed my way triumphantly 
through the pelting wind, I have answered with a 
shout of joy Emerson’s vigorous challenge, — 
