260 BIRD-LAND ECHOES. 



and tree-creeper and nuthatches that do not huddle 

 on the south side of the oaks and forever fret if there 

 be no sunshine ; finches that chirp among the trees, 

 cheerful as their cousins that cling to thistles in 

 August, creatures as dainty as the summer breezes 

 that bore their sweet songs across the hot fields and 

 down the dusty highways. Is there not abundant 

 reason why all of Christmas should not be spent 

 in-doors? I have in mind a Christmas morning, 

 crystal clear, when I stood by an old elm that held 

 aloft a perfect labyrinth of interlacing branches that 

 barred the sky beyond like the close grating of a 

 prison window, and while I looked at the elm and 

 wondered where might be hidden the birds that I 

 heard, but could not see, suddenly there appeared a 

 host of wee, crimson-fronted linnets, that sang with 

 ardor all their simple songs. There was no half- 

 hearted chirping, nor one languid movement Had 

 they caught the spirit of this magic date ? A mere 

 coincidence, of course, but what a pitiful fate to be 

 born with no imagination ! Merely a bird's song to 

 you ; but why not hear it as a veritable Christmas 

 greeting and be glad ? 



Before the sparkle of the early morning had van- 

 ished I was well on my way down the lone wood- 

 path, and reached the unsheltered glade where once 

 had been a cottage. The grass was yet green, and the 

 prince's pine was as lush as the rankest of midsum- 

 mer growths. The old hermit of Nottingham spent 

 many a Christmas here, and died here on Christmas 

 day just fifty years ago. The birds of the wildwood 



