IN THE HEMLOCKS. 61 



feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the 

 dim, almost religious light. The irreverent 

 red squirrels, however, run and snicker at 

 my approach, or mock the solitude with their 

 ridiculous chattering and frisking. 



This nook is the chosen haunt of the win- 

 ter wren. This is the only place and these 

 the only woods in which I find him in this 

 vicinity. His voice fills these dim aisles, as 

 if aided by some marvellous sounding-board. 

 Indeed, his song is very strong for so small 

 a bird, and unites in a remarkable degree 

 brilliancy and plaintiveness. I think of a 

 tremulous, vibrating tongue of silver. You 

 may know it is the song of a wren, from its 

 gushing, lyrical character : but you must 

 needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, 

 especially while in the act of singing. He 

 is nearly the color of the ground and the 

 leaves ; he never ascends the tall trees, but 

 keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and 

 from root to root, dodging in and out of his 

 hiding-places, and watching all intruders 

 with a suspicious eye. He has a very pert, 

 almost comical look. His tail stands more 

 than perpendicular : it points straight to- 

 ward his head. Pie is the least ostentatious 

 singer I know of. He does not strike an 



