IN WINTER WOODS 



colder weather. The owls couch in the thick 

 brush or perch in sheltered crevices in the 

 hollow trees. The chickadees pert, black- 

 capped gossips dodge about at the edges of 

 the woods and busy themselves along the rail- 

 fences by the fields. Nowhere is the iron 

 hand of winter felt so harshly as in the mead- 

 ows and fields. There a few broken and 

 discolored cornstalks flap or creak in the 

 winds that sweep by, and the winding-sheet 

 of snow is unrelieved by aught to break the 

 cheerless monotony. Overhead in the timber 

 a shadow sometimes falls across the snow, 

 the shade of a broad and wandering wing, 

 and the hoarse, harsh cry of a foraging crow 

 echoes raucously in the trees. The course of 

 a crow's flight through heavy timber is hardly 

 discernible, so well do the dark branches 

 blend with his dusky pinions. Most brilliant 

 of all colors in the woods of middle America 

 during the winter months is the red-bird's 

 wing and the jaunty set of his crested head. 

 Alert, saucy, and suspicious, he appears in 

 the thicket beyond, drops from sight, reap- 

 pears, and again is gone. His beautiful flam- 

 ing flight is a line of fire along the drifted 

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