A NOVEMBER CHRONICLE. 139 



two or three times. The chickadees are 

 always musical, there is no need to say 

 that ; but I heard them sing only on this 

 one morning. 



Altogether, with the cloudless, mild days, 

 the birds, the tree-frogs, the butterflies, and 

 the flowers, November did not seem the 

 bleak and cheerless season it has commonly 

 been painted. Still it was not exactly like 

 summer. On the last day I saw some 

 very small boys skating on the Cambridge 

 marshes, and the next morning December 

 showed its hand promptly, sending the 

 mercury down to within two or three de- 

 grees of zero. 



