50 IN BIRD LAND. 
as if it were a carpet of down, and picking seeds 
from grass-stems and weed-stalks. All the while 
they keep up a cheerful chirping, as if to express 
their appreciation of the pleasant winter weather. 
Strangest of all is their wading about in the snow. 
It makes me shiver to see their little bare feet sink- 
ing into the icy crystals, and I feel disposed to offer 
them my warm rubber boots; only I know they 
would decline the proposal with scorn. ‘I am no 
tenderfoot !”’ one of them seems to say, with cunning 
literalness. Their dainty tracks in the snow are 
suggestive, and give to the thoughtful observer more 
than one clew to bird cerebration. Let us follow 
one of these winding pathways. Here a bird 
alighted, his feet sinking deep into the cold down; 
then he hopped along to this tuft of grass, where he 
picked a few mouthfuls of seeds, standing up to his 
body in the snow; then an impulse seized him to 
seek another feeding-place; so he went plunging 
through the drifts, leaving, at regular intervals, the 
prints of his two tiny feet side by side, while his 
toes traced a slender connecting line on the white 
surface between the deeper indentations. But here 
is another path. What impulse seized this bird to 
turn back like a rabbit on his track? For it is 
evident that this is sometimes done. ‘Then here 
are only two or three footprints, showing that the 
bird alighted suddenly, and as suddenly yielded to 
an impulse to fly up again. What thought struck 
him just at that moment that made him so quickly 
change his mind? 
