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and zest that they put into their scratching among 

 the leaves. 



A much bigger splashing drew me quietly through 

 the bushes to find a marsh hawk giving himself 

 a Christmas souse. The scratching, washing, and 

 talking of the birds; the masses of green in the 

 cedars, holly, and laurels ; the glowing colors of the 

 berries against the snow ; the blue of the sky, and 

 the golden warmth of the light made Christmas in 

 the heart of the noon that the very swamp seemed 

 to feel. 



Three months later there was to be scant picking 

 here, for this was the beginning of the severest win- 

 ter I ever knew. From this very ridge, in February, 

 I had reports of berries gone, of birds starving, of 

 whole coveys of quail frozen dead in the snow ; but 

 neither the birds nor I dreamed to-day of any such 

 hunger and death. A flock of robins whirled into 

 the cedars above me; a pair of cardinals whistled 

 back and forth ; tree sparrows, j uncos, nuthatches, 

 chickadees, and cedar-birds cheeped among the trees 

 and bushes ; and from the farm lands at the top of 

 the slope rang the calls of meadowlarks. 



Halfway up the hill I stopped under a blackjack 

 30 



