In Winter-Quarters. 311 



nearest to utter desolation that I have known, a 

 perfect and yet a birdless day. 



While yet the sunlight lingered I walked on and 

 on, until a chilling breeze from the river drove me 

 back. Here were birds. Bluebirds were trying 

 the cedars, as if any one of them would not afford 

 sufficient shelter. Snow-birds darted from bush 

 to thicket and back, and warblers by the score 

 sought refuge from the coming storm. There 

 were enough birds in every tree to have made the 

 whole sunlit fields ring with joy ; but no, perverse 

 things, they must crouch and shiver by the river 

 shore, and fret because the days were growing 

 colder and shorter. 



It was miserably dull the next day. A chilling 

 Scotch mist rested on the fields, and the oak leaves 

 wept shall I say ? at the woful change. What 

 now of the birds ? I asked, and later found them 

 merry, active, and every one afield. It was dull 

 enough to dampen the ardor of an English spar- 

 row, yet not one of them was snugly housed in its 

 winter-quarters. 



