284 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



and is now dripping from the moss, the dead grass, and 

 overhanging banks of frozen earth, and every drop tin- 

 kles with bell-like music as it strikes the pebbles beneath, 

 and its shattered glories are lost in the rippling brook. 

 This, with the rustling of crisp leaves and sighing of the 

 wind, will it not suffice for music? 



Add to these the birds, and we have the jubilee. I 

 have been present at scores of them in a single winter. 

 Omitting all reference to hawks and owls, although these 

 are very far from being devoid of interest, let me recall, 

 while I sit in the shadow of the bridge, those birds that 

 I have seen here and hereabouts every winter since I 

 systematically rambled in search of them. 



There are robins, of course. Not a poor straggler 

 now and then in search of its fellows, but hale, hearty 

 birds, full of song even, and never disheartened because 

 the frozen sod no longer yields them an abundance of 

 earthworms. The berries of the cedar, and what they 

 left in the autumn of the gurnberries, afford them suffi- 

 cient food, and so no cause to complain have they. 



Kestless, rambling, rollicking bluebirds. Be it clear 

 or cloudy, they come and go with as much uncertainty 

 as the weather. To-day a hundred perch upon the stakes 

 of worm-fences, warbling their May-day songs, and -chas- 

 ing imaginary insects in the clear cold air to-morrow 

 not one is to be seen. Nor have they merely hidden 

 in some secluded corner. They have taken a fairly long 

 journey, and will return, not in accordance with the 

 weather, waiting for a mild day, but always following 

 the whim of the moment, instead of, like so many birds, 

 the dictation of Jack Frost. 



