Where Town and Country Meet 



taken up with the serious business of life 

 as to be quite unaware of his presence. I 

 have almost taken them in my hand from 

 the trunks of trees, when they were search- 

 ing for food. Their chirp is a curious, 

 amusing, dry sort of soliloquy, that reminds 

 me of a very busy person talking to himself 

 while at work, or singing a low, monotonous 

 snatch of song. The bird's note is flat and 

 metallic, like a diminutive duck-quack. I 

 can not help smiling whenever I run across 

 the unconscious, bustling little body, so 

 loquaciously intent upon its perennial house- 

 cleaning. 



While slowly making my way up a low 

 ridge, covered with nothing but pines and 

 very good ones, too, considering how this 

 tree is harried by the woodcutters I sur- 

 prise a bird that I little thought to find in 

 this section, though it is said to be plentiful 

 during the winter in Canada the pine finch 

 or pine siskin, an olive-backed bird, with a 

 breast of smoky, dingy white. I get but 

 a glimpse of it, as it pauses for a moment 

 on a pine branch overhead, and then flies 

 silently and swiftly away. It has a song 

 during the breeding season, I believe or 

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