290 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



days grow short, and often sing merrily when in Janu- 

 ary there conies a royally bright day, filled with sweet 

 winter sunshine. More ruddy finches haunt the cedars 

 now, and two cross-bills, near akin, and alike in all their 

 habits, climb like parrots, twitter like sparrows, and weary 

 of gymnastics, hurry out of sight, to be gone, it may be, 

 until another year rolls by. 



Early and late, wherever trees are tall and weeds have 

 been left for forage grounds, the pretty linnets are sure 

 to be found. If not to-day, to-morrow; if not this 

 week, next. Like all winter birds, save half a dozen, 

 they are delightfully uncertain. If you see them when 

 you walk, count it good -luck; if not, repeat your ram- 

 bles until you have met them. That lemon-yellow and 

 black finch that fed in summer on thistle-down, floated 

 up and down as it flew, and twittered with every undu- 

 lation, is now in a russet suit, and comes and goes in 

 flocks of a dozen or a hundred, as the case may be. A 

 near relative, the pine -finch, is now here, also, and in 

 voice and habits they are as much alike as peas from 

 the same pod. They chirp and twitter so earnestly that 

 we listen with pleasure, even though they are high over- 

 head, and we must bend our necks to see them dotting 

 the naked branches of the tallest trees. 



Coming back to the ground, if there has been a snow, 

 one may count upon the arctic buntings. More beauti- 

 ful birds it is seldom one's fortune to see ; and seen at 

 their best are they when trooping over the snow, seed- 

 hunting among the upreaching stems of the tall weeds. 



With them, it may be, will occur one or more Lapland 

 long-spurs. Count it a red-letter day if you chance to 



