A FOREST ANTHEM. 153 



All through the day the white-throated spar- 

 rows scratched in the leaves which the melting 

 snows had left pressed to the surface of the 

 ground. I estimated that I saw over a hundred 

 of these busy birds. A few were singing, and 

 their " pe-pe-pe-pe-peabody, peabody, peabody " 

 went straight to the heart just as it always 

 does, whether in spring, summer or autumn. I 

 caught one beautiful male who had flown through 

 an open doorway and was beating himself 

 against the window pane. Holding him gently 

 but firmly in my closed hand, so that his won- 

 derfully marked head alone was free to move, 

 I stroked his black, white, and yellow feathers 

 with the tip of my right forefinger. After 

 repeated pressure of the gentlest kind on the 

 back of his beautiful head and the nape of his 

 neck, I slowly opened my hand and left him 

 perched on my middle finger. He looked around 

 him but did not offer to fly. Again and 

 again I brought my hand up slowly to his head 

 and caressed him. His clear, bright eyes 

 watched me fearlessly. I moved him gently, 

 but the little feet only clung the more closely to 

 my finger. For nearly five minutes he perched 

 there contentedly, and then, recovering some 

 suppressed faculty, he rejoined his friends 

 among the dry leaves. 



About noon I visited a red maple which I 



