POAETQUISSINGS IN WINTER. 19 



stormy the day, finding food in or near its waters, I 

 doubt not, and flitting among the drooping branches of 

 the trees, they warble suggestively of spring. Although 

 the ground may be snow-clad, and ice may cover all the 

 creek beyond, the bluebird's warble so warms one's 

 blood and banishes the nippings of Jack Frost, that, 

 half-forgetful of the time of year, we glance about for 

 pink arbutus or blue houstonia. Recently, although the 

 air was thick with snow, I rambled hitherward in search 

 of saw-whet owls that I thought were hiding in the 

 dense cedars that dot the hillside. Perhaps they were 

 there, but I could not find them, and, weary with my 

 tramp, I paused by the spring, as usual, and found good 

 company, as I expected. 



A song-sparrow near by twittered, "Good-morning;" 

 a pair of bluebirds whistled, and repeated comments on 

 the weather, or what I accepted as such, but I, rather 

 uncivilly, took but little notice of their greetings, and 

 centred my attention upon a winter- wren, that stood 

 upon a projecting pebble in the basin of the spring. 

 My sudden presence startled the bird, and it flew to a 

 neighboring spring a few yards distant. As it seemed 

 so partial to the water, I was induced to follow, as I 

 did, cautiously, and to observe the bird closely, remain- 

 ing myself unseen by it. 



This second spring, near which the wren was now sit- 

 ting, differs from the other, in that it issues from a slight- 

 ly higher level, and, passing over a broad slab of iron- 

 cemented pebbles, falls, as a sheet of water a foot in 

 height, and twice that measurement in breadth. Be- 

 hind this pretty little cataract is a mossy, dripping 



