90 IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



him sing from a living tree or bush, but always 

 from a stump or a log, or from the root or 

 branch of an overturned tree, from some- 

 thing, at least, of nearly his own color. 1 The 

 song is intrinsically one of the most beautiful, 

 and in my ears it has the further merit of being 

 forever associated with reminiscences of ram- 

 blings among the White Hills. How well I 

 remember an early morning hour at Profile 

 Lake, when it came again and again across the 

 water from the woods on Mount Cannon, under 

 the Great Stone Face ! 



Whichever way I walked, I was sure of the 

 society of the snow-birds. They hopped famil- 

 iarly across the railroad track in front of the 

 Crawford House, and on the summit of Mount 

 Washington were scurrying about among the 

 rocks, opening and shutting their pretty white- 

 bordered fans. Half-way up Mount Willard I 

 sat down to rest on a stone, and after a minute 

 or two out dropped a snow-bird at my feet, and 

 ran across the road, trailing her wings. I looked 

 under the bank for her nest, but, to my surprise, 

 could find nothing of it. So I made sure of 

 knowing the place again, and continued my 

 tramp. Returning two hours later, I sat down 

 upon the same bowlder, and watched for the 



1 True when written, but now needing to be qualified by one 

 exception. See p. 226. 



