IN THE HEMLOCKS. 47 



wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially con- 

 cealed entrance, the exquisite structure is placed. 

 Horse and cow hair are plentifully used, imparting to 

 the interior of the nest great symmetry and firmness 

 as well as softness. 



Passing down through the maple arches, barely 

 pausing to observe the antics of a trio of squirrels, 

 — two gray ones and a black one, — I cross an an- 

 cient brush fence and am fairly within the old hem- 

 locks, and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed 

 nooks. In the deep moss I tread as with muffled feet, 

 and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the dim, almost re- 

 ligious light. The irreverent red squirrels, however, 

 run and snicker at my approach, or mock the solitude 

 with their ridiculous chattering and frisking. 



This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter wren. 

 This is the only place and these the only woods in 

 which I find him in this vicinity. His voice fills these 

 dim aisles, as if aided by some marvelous sounding- 

 board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so small a 

 bird and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy and 

 plaintiveness. I think of a tremulous vibrating tongue 

 of silver. You may know it is the song of a wren, from 

 its gushing lyrical character : but you must needs look 

 sharp to see the little minstrel, especially while in the 

 act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground 

 and the leaves ; he never ascends the tall trees, but 

 keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and from root 

 to root, dodging in and out of his hiding-places, and 



