WAYSIDE RAMBLES, 15 
**Robins and mocking-birds that all day long 
Athwart straight sunshine weave cross-threads of song, 
Shuttles of music.” 
The wayside rambler often is witness of delight- 
ful bird-pranks that must escape other eyes. On a 
bright day in February I strolled to the hollow to 
which I have already referred. The sun was melt- 
ing the ice-mantle from the brook, and causing the 
snow to pour in runlets down the banks. In a 
broad, shallow curve of the stream the tree-sparrows 
and song-sparrows were taking a bath. I watched 
them for a long time. Some of them would remain 
in the ice-cold water for from three to five minutes, 
fluttering their wings and tails in perfect glee, and 
sending the pearl-drops and spray glimmering into 
the air. Their ablutions done, they would fly up to 
the saplings near by, and carefully preen and dry 
their moistened robes. 
It was in the depth of the woods that my saucy 
black-cap, the titmouse, clambered straight up the 
vertical bole of an oak sapling, as if he had learned 
the trick from the brown creeper or the white- 
breasted nuthatch. No less interesting was the 
conduct of the downy woodpecker, that little drum- 
major of the woods. He is the tilter par excellence 
of the woodpecker family. He flings himself in the 
most reckless manner from trunk to branch, and 
from branch to twig, often alighting back-downward 
on the slenderest stems. Shall I describe one of 
his odd tricks? I had often seen him clinging to 
the slender withes of the willows at the border of 
