116 BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. 



branches of a white birch. Just as I begin to 

 question my eyes, she flies into a plum-tree and I 

 recognize the small brown head, the short finch 

 bill, for she belongs in pigeon-hole No. 4, and 

 the white triangular corners of the chewink taiL 



But on the instant she spies me, and away she flies, 

 low over the ground to I never know where. 

 Had she clapped on a magic cap she could not 

 have vanished more completely. I waste the best 

 part of the morning hunting for her, and the next 

 day begin the search again. 



Going along a narrow trail that serves as snow- 

 shoe path in winter, in passing a dead tree top I 

 start the usual number of white-throats, and as I 

 turn the corner of the fence into the clearing be- 

 hold ! right before me, clinging to the side of a 



