202 THE BROOK BOOK 



out. I shall keep him in a cool, dark place, in a 

 box of earth and dead leaves, until he does some- 

 thing. 



Then I saw an oriole's nest flapping loosely 

 against a bough in a high tree -top, and I fell 

 a-thinking of the summer, and forgot it was January 

 until some noisy tree-sparrows playing "Here we 

 go round the barberry bush" woke me up. I had 

 passed that elm tree forty times last July and August 

 and had seen the orioles whirling in and out, but 

 their secret place was well hidden by kindly sum- 

 mer. There are three nests in that same tree. 

 They could hardly serve as homes another year, 

 even if anybody wanted them. The wind has 

 switched them to shreds and tags. 



My room-mate and I had promised each other 

 that neither would ever go alone along the really 

 dangerous paths on the sides of the gorges. To-day 

 I was strongly tempted but finally contented myself 

 by gazing down at the ice-bound stream and at 

 the huge icicles lining its steep, rocky sides. They 

 hung so cold and blue, and gleaming in the sun- 

 light. The Jack Frost of my nursery book had 

 just such icicles for whiskers. A week later when 

 they were in the height of their beauty the Artist 

 found a safe path down to the flat rocks at the 

 bottom and took a winter picture. 



But it was too cold to stand long admiring the 

 icicles. Further up where the banks are sloping, 

 I could follow a path down to the water's edge. 

 The sights would be tamer, I knew, but my desire 

 to be nearer the water was too strong to resist. 



