54 IN WINTER. 



titmouse, wren, or creeper, that evidently prefers 

 the immediate surroundings of a spring to all 

 other spots, but every one of twenty or more de- 

 lights to make daily visits to such a locality, and 

 the sight of the green growths that crowd the 

 water's edge prompts them all to greater cheer- 

 fulness, I have thought, than when treading the 

 mazes of upland thickets or scanning the dreary 

 outlook of a snow-clad field. But yesterday, 

 more like June than January, it is true, I stood 

 by a little spring that welled up from among the 

 roots of an old maple, to watch the movements of 

 a minnow that had strayed from the creek near 

 by. While there a wee nuthatch came darting 

 down from the trees and perched upon a project- 

 ing root, scarcely an inch above the water. It sat 

 for a moment, like a fairy kingfisher, and then 

 plunged into the shallow depths with all the 

 grace of an accomplished diver. More than this, 

 as it shook the glittering drops from its feathers 

 upon emerging it sang sweetly. This unlooked- 

 for conclusion of its bathing frolic was the more 

 remarkable, as the ordinary utterance of the bird 

 is anything but musical. 



There are large birds also that frequent the 

 springs habitually in winter, and the fact of their 

 presence is of itself evidence that other active an- 

 imal life must also abound. I refer to herons, 

 bitterns, and I may add crows. The former two 



