A COLD WAVE. iy 



the ground. Even after such a storm as the 

 historic blizzard of a year ago, birds that had 

 succumbed through exposure, were compara- 

 tively few. The fact that the alien sparrows in 

 our cities were destroyed in large numbers, 

 strengthens my previous assertion, for they, un- 

 like wild life, are largely deprived of the advan- 

 tage of snug harbors, such as the country affords 

 our native birds; and their semi-domesticated 

 condition has rendered them less provident and 

 observing. Such, at least, was the tenor of my 

 thoughts while resting in my sheltered outlook. 

 Before many minutes had elapsed the ex- 

 pected chirping of winter finches was heard ; at 

 first in the distance, but directly almost over- 

 head ; then, everywhere about me. A moment 

 later, and a dozen were in full view. Myself, a 

 shapeless mass upon a mossy log, the birds mis- 

 took me for a part of it, and I had but to look 

 and listen. Foxie sparrows threaded the tangled 

 maze of vine and cane, singing a few sweet notes 

 at times, as the wind lulled and the warm sun- 

 shine flooded the shelter with a brighter glow ; 

 white-throats warbled in their listless way, and 

 one fearless winter wren peered into every cranny 

 of the hollowed earth, spider-hunting wherever 

 the waters of the last freshet had caverned the 

 overhanging banks. As it drew near, I almost 

 held my breath, hoping it would venture to creep 



