JANUARY. 25 



And afar off, hopping amid the stranded rubbish upon 

 the river's bank, are song-sparrows that find our winters 

 passing good, if their daily singing voices their content. 



Herein, then, lies the merit of our winter it does not 

 leave us to grope about in silence ; for the rustling of dead 

 leaves, the cracking of great trees or of the ground during 

 intense cold, and the booming of the ice-bound river, 

 alone, are but hollow mockeries, but coupled with the 

 songs of our many winter birds each is a soul-stirring 

 melody. 



So seldom do we have a really deep and long-lasting 

 snow that when one comes the familiar fields have all the 

 charm of a new country. I speak advisedly when I say 

 that a deep snow is unusual, and, having the records of a 

 hundred years, fear no damaging contradiction. The ge- 

 ology of the region has something to do with this, for the 

 higher and colder clay soils to the north and west are often 

 deeply covered when there is little or no snow here. Often 

 does it happen that we have a cold and sleety rain when 

 the ground is white scarcely five miles away. Therefore 

 it is that my more distant neighbors have the snow bunt- 

 ings in abundance when not one comes near us ; and 

 often across the river, in the dark, rocky woods, the cross- 

 bills throng the thickset cedars, while I look for them in 

 vain along the home hill-side. So every petty area has its 

 own attractions to the birds, and where the snow lies long- 

 est and the vegetation best recalls their northern homes 

 will our winter visitants most surely be found. In the 

 home fields a really deep snow is so far uncommon that I 

 honestly love it. 



I have in mind one such, in January a very marvel 

 of a midwinter storm. There were no huge drifts and 

 desolate areas of naked ground, but every space and tree 

 and tiny twig was weighted to the utmost : this, in brief, 

 the effect of the storm that continued during the silent 



