BIRDS AT YULE-TIDE. 243 



Leaving the pines to darkness and its birds, 

 I came back to the wren orchard. As I ran 

 through a savin-dotted pasture, a lonely junco 

 flew from beneath a juniper bush, and alighted 

 upon the ground. I stopped and watched him. 

 For a while he kept very still, but at last he 

 showed his white tail feathers in flight, and van- 

 ished among the cedars. Under the cedars I 

 found a dead bird, lying on its back upon the 

 snow. It was a grosbeak, with almost every 

 feather, except those on the breast, intact ; yet, 

 strange to say, its body had been eaten, prob- 

 ably by mice, for no creature less tiny could 

 have removed the flesh so completely without 

 injuring the plumage. I fear the trustfulness 

 of this gentle migrant caused its death. Mice 

 can eat birds, but they cannot shoot them first. 



The apple-trees in the wren orchard seemed 

 even more grotesquely gnarled as they lifted 

 their distorted limbs against the moonlit sky 

 than they had in the pale winter sunshine. 

 They are very old trees for fruit trees, and 

 many a dark cavern in their trunks and larger 

 limbs offers shelter to owls, squirrels, and mice. 

 Leaning against one of their broad trunks, I im- 

 itated the attenuated squeak made by a mouse. 

 Again and again I drew breath through my 

 tightly closed and puckered lips, feeling sure 

 that if Scops and his appetite were in com- 



