the gymnastic white-breasted nuthatch. 

 It is most amusing to watch him going 

 up and down in search of spiders' eggs 

 and other dainties. He is most agile of 

 all climbing birds, and seems happiest 

 when the snow flies past. Over the 

 crest of the "pine-dark" hill soar half a 

 dozen coal black crows, calling to each 

 other from the breezy height. How 

 gracefully they balance and wheel in the 

 wind with scarcely the flutter of a 

 feather. Living on those lofty heights 

 what a view of the world they must 

 have. 



Along the edge of the woods, in pro- 

 tected places, we find the small rock- 

 cress, looking so fresh and green we al- 

 most expect to see the tiny white flow- 

 ers beginning to appear. 



Under an icy covering where the 

 water has dripped down -and frozen 

 clear as crystal, we find green herbs im- 



prisoned and perfectly preserved. Life 

 would seem absolutely extinct. Yet we 

 know that a few days of warm spring 

 sunshine will revivify the apparently 

 lifeless roots, and again beautify them 

 with leaf and flower. 



We miss the choral music of the sum- 

 mer songsters, yet the woods are not 

 noiseless. There is the low singing of 

 the wind in the pines, the creaking of 

 the branches, the twitter of snowbirds, 

 the cawing of the crows, and the soft 

 gurgle of the river where the water 

 rushes, through an unfrozen channel. 

 Now and then the sharp crack of a rifle 

 is heard, followed by the excited bark- 

 ing of a dog. 



Certainly there are many things of in- 

 terest in the winter woods, and one 

 misses much if he fails to go out at 

 least a few times while the snow is on 

 the ground. Charles F. Fudge. 



THE BLACK-THROATED. GREEN WARBLER. 



A gorgeous butterfly with wings 



White-barred, a gilded robe and crown, 

 Into the pine tree flutters down 



And half-asleep, half-waking sings. 



Voice of the calm midsummer's day ! 

 As sunlit bees are droning long. 

 It wooes the listener with its song. 



The tree and 



song a harmony 



'Tis said the white pine's soul became 



Incarnate in this butterfly — 



This little bird that knows the sky 

 Yet loves the parent bough the same. 



And still the impassioned spirit sees 



The pine trees waving, hear the sough 

 Of wandering winds and tells us how 



They sang the same soft melodies. 



O spirit bird! thy tender breast, 



C'rapc-nuifllcd, thrills with unsung songs, 



No careless heart to thee belongs, 

 The sky forgot, thy home is best. 



— Nki.i.y I Taut W'oonwoRTir. 



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