THE SEA LV A SXOWSTORM. 19 



of their sweet song to suggest the summer. 

 Once during the day I heard the " phoebe note " 

 of the chickadee, and twice I had the satisfaction 

 of hearing crows " gobble." They do not often 

 make this sound. It suggests somewhat the 

 gobbling of a turkey-cock. So warm, thawing, 

 and genial was this day that one had to be pes- 

 simistic to realize that it was only a mocking 

 grin on the mask of winter and not a smile on 

 the lips of spring. 



But Sunday, February 8, showed winter in 

 his true colors again. The day was, as regards 

 snow-laden trees and drifted roads, a duplicate 

 of the last Sunday in January. Instead of en- 

 joying the snow pictures in the woods and pas- 

 tures of Arlington, I traversed Crab Alley, 

 Bread and Milk Streets, and that meandering 

 marvel of old Boston, Batterymarch Street, and 

 gained the harbor front at Rowe's Wharf. 

 Some of these snow-covered haunts of trade 

 were as free from footprints as the savin 

 swamps of Arlington. In Crab Alley I came 

 to tracks in the snow which made me wonder 

 whether some of the quail from the Parker 

 House toast had not escaped alive. Dainty 

 little steps crossed and recrossed the narrow 

 lane, and formed a dense network of converging 

 paths at the back door of a small chop-house. 

 As I approached, two tame doves flew noisily 



