64 NEW HAMPSHIRE 



reach the foot of Echo Lake, where as I pass a 

 cluster of balsam firs I am saluted by the busy, 

 hurried calls of golden-crowned kinglets. A wren 

 is here also, irritable as ever, and hearing a 

 chickadee's voice, I whistle and chirp to him. 

 If I can set him to scolding, all the birds in the 

 neighborhood will flock this way to ascertain 

 what the trouble is. The device works to a 

 charm; in half a minute the excitement is 

 intense. Nuthatches, white-throats, chickadees, 

 kinglets, and wren, all take a hand in vituperat- 

 ing the intruder, and a youthful redstart comes 

 from the opposite side of the way to satisfy his 

 more gentle curiosity. One creature, strangely 

 enough, remains neutral: a red squirrel, who 

 sits on end at the top of a stump and gazes at 

 me in silence. He holds one hand upon his heart, 

 like an opera singer, and looks and looks. " You 

 sentimental goose ! " I say ; " who taught you 

 that trick?" and I laugh at him and pass on. 

 This is near the corner of the old Notch road, 

 and as I round it and face the cold northerly 

 wind I button my coat about me and start 

 homeward at a quicker pace. 



