Beyond the Snow-Path 



what passes for a song but is silent during 

 the rest of the year. 



A pine grossbeak catches my eye, as I 

 begin to swing around in a circle toward 

 the woodchopper's path again, and soon 

 afterward a genuine robin redbreast, bravely 

 wintering near his summer nest. The hon 

 est chatter of my orchard friend sounds most 

 grateful to the ear, though he is terribly 

 suspicious of me now, and scurries away 

 the moment I come in sight of him. He 

 too would have remained entirely silent, this 

 sharp winter day, had I not chanced to dis 

 turb him. 



The soft, plaintive chirp of a kinglet ar 

 rests my attention, but I try in vain to dis 

 cover the bird, which is doubtless well hid 

 den in some adjacent thicket, and quite 

 escapes the searchlight swing of my field- 

 glass. I am by this time too tired to wade 

 about and- dislodge him; and besides, there 

 would be little gained by it, after identify 

 ing the bird by his chirp. 



As I reach the clearing once more, I am 

 surprised and delighted to find a flock of 

 snow-buntings in possession of it, perched 

 by dozens in the brush-piles. Pretty little 



