WITH THE WINTER BIRDS. 257 



mattered little where I stopped, these riches for the 

 eye were everywhere. Yet there was variety. The 

 holly does not shed its leaves, and what a spectacle 

 that one lone tree, laden with crimson berries ! Be- 

 yond, in a little clearing left by the wood-choppers 

 years ago, the creeping blackberry matted the whole 

 space, and every leaf was ruddy. The mullein, 

 hibernating in a velvet gown, looked fresh as a May 

 morning. The little beeches held fast to their golden 

 leaves, and each was encased in crystal. Even the 

 bubbling spring looked up with a shining face, and 

 in its depths waved green growths, a little flooded 

 meadow. Christmas by the almanac, but where was 

 winter? From a long line of low bushes which 

 replaced a fence that had crumbled before the mem- 

 ory of living man came the clear, hopeful notes, the 

 hearty good-will notes, of many a winter songster, 

 and we have many of them. The song-sparrow that 

 made merry in the mornings of May was no less 

 happy now on its frosty perch. The chickadee was 

 not content with merely lisping its happiness, but 

 sang those clear phe-bee notes that are among the 

 sweetest of all winter sounds. It is an expression 

 of satisfaction with the world that few people, I 

 fancy, can conscientiously repeat. It is the only 

 known bird-song that indicates perfect happiness, 

 and yet our mere description goes for nothing. The 

 bird must be seen as well as heard. Indeed, this is 

 true of all the out-door world. How tame are the 

 brightest pages of our out-door books in comparison 

 with an hour's ramble among the scenes we venture 



r 22* 



