MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



And the Saviour speaks in mildness ; 



Blest be thou of all the good ! 

 Bear as token of this moment 



Marks of blood and holy rood ! 



And the bird is called the crossbill ; 



Covered all with blood so clear, 

 In the groves of pine it singeth 



Songs like legends strange to hear.^ 



If you wish to see what it is that attracts the 

 crossbill to coniferous trees, shake one of these 

 spruce cones. Tiny winged seeds flutter out 

 from among the scales, and the twisted bill is the 

 best kind of an implement with which to reach 

 these stowaway stores. 



A flock of snow-buntings, or snow-flakes, as 

 they are sometimes called, is always a delightful 

 sight to me. " Whirling about in the drifting 

 snow to catch the seeds on the tallest stalk that 

 the wind in the open meadow uncovers, the snow- 

 flakes suggest a lot of dead leaves being blown 

 through the all-pervading whiteness. Beautiful 

 soft brown, gray, and predominating black and 

 white coloring distinguish these capricious visit- 



* Longfellow, in the Legend of the Crossbill. 



[108] 



