Beyond the Snow-Path 



what passes for a song but is silent during 

 the rest of the year. 



A pine grossbeak catches my eye, as I 

 begin to swing around in a circle toward 

 the woodchopper's path again, and soon 

 afterward a genuine robin redbreast, bravely 

 wintering near his summer nest. The hon- 

 est chatter of my orchard friend sounds most 

 grateful to the ear, though he is terribly 

 suspicious of me now, and scurries away 

 the moment I come in sight of him. He 

 too would have remained entirely silent, this 

 sharp winter day, had I not chanced to dis- 

 turb him. 



The soft, plaintive chirp of a kinglet ar- 

 rests my attention, but I try in vain to dis- 

 cover the bird, which is doubtless well hid- 

 den in some adjacent thicket, and quite 

 escapes the searchlight swing of my field- 

 glass. I am by this time too tired to wade 

 about and dislodge him; and besides, there 

 would be little gained by it, after identify- 

 ing the bird by his chirp. 



As I reach the clearing once more, I am 

 surprised and delighted to find a flock of 

 snow-buntings in possession of it, perched 

 by dozens in the brush-piles. Pretty little 



13 *93 



