ZERO BIRDS 19 



The air was like iced wine. Every axe-stroke drove 

 it tingling through my blood. 



Before attacking the hickory, however, I began to 

 cut down the brush surrounding the doomed tree, so 

 as to gain clear space for the axe-swing. Almost im- 

 mediately a vindictive spice-bush in falling knocked 

 off my glasses, and they fell into the snow some- 

 where ahead of me. Without them I am in the same 

 condition as a mole or a shrew, my sense of sight 

 being only rudimentary. Down I plumped on my 

 knees in the snow and fumbled in the half light with 

 numbed fingers through the cold whiteness ahead. 



As I groped and grumbled in this lowly position, 

 suddenly I heard the prelude to one of the most beau- 

 tiful of winter dawn-songs. It was a liquid loud 

 note full of rolling r's. Perhaps it can be best rep- 

 resented in print somewhat as follows: " Chip'rYr'r. " 

 I forgot my lost glasses and my cold hands and my 

 wet knees waiting for the song that I knew was com- 

 ing. Another preliminary, rolling note or so, and there 

 sounded from a low stump a wild, ringing song that 

 could be heard for half a mile. " Wheedle- wheedle- 

 wheedle," it began full of liquid bell-like overtones. 

 Then the singer added another syllable to his strain 

 and sang, "Whee-udel, whee-udel, whee-udel." 

 Three times, with a short rest between, he sang the 

 full double strain through, although it was so dark 

 that only the ghostly, black tree-trunks could be 

 seen against the white snow. I needed no sight of 

 him, however, to recognize the singer. The song 

 took me back to a bitter winter day in Philadelphia 



