WINTER VISITORS. 



A L THOUGH no longer on our coasts descend the 

 keels of the Norsemen, and although sea rovers 

 are as rare as the sea-serpent, yet each autumn there 

 comes on us still from the hungry North a host of 

 clamorous invaders. The wide stretches of level land 

 along the shores of rivers, the muddy flats left by the 

 retreating tide, are peopled anew by the wild fowl that 

 deserted them in the spring. From Norwegian fjelds 

 and forests, from the wide plains of Siberia, even 

 from near the Pole itself, great flights of these winter 

 visitors are trooping fast. Once more the snow lies 

 deep upon the marshes that in the brief summer of 

 the North awoke and kindled into life, and glowed 

 with rich rank verdure. Once more over the desolate 

 wastes there reigns the silence of the dreary winter. 



Along the Eastern coasts we may watch at early 

 dawn, high up on the grey sky, the long columns of 

 the invading army. 



Flocks of geese in the orderly grey wedges that 

 delight the heart of the wild-fowler ; strings of teal 



