IVA YSIDE , RAMBLES. 1 5 



" Robins and mocking-birds that all day long 

 Athwart straight sunshine weave cross-threads of song, 



Shuttles of music." 



The wayside rambler often is witness of delight- 

 ful bird-pranks that must escape other eyes. On a 

 bright day in February I strolled to the hollow to 

 which I have already referred. The sun was melt- 

 ing the ice-mantle from the brook, and causing the 

 snow to pour in runlets down the banks. In a 

 broad, shallow curve of the stream the tree-sparrows 

 and song-sparrows were taking a bath. I watched 

 them for a long time. Some of them would remain 

 in the ice-cold water for from three to five minutes, 

 fluttering their wings and tails in perfect glee, and 

 sending the pearl-drops and spray glimmering into 

 the air. Their ablutions done, they would fly up to 

 the saplings near by, and carefully preen and dry 

 their moistened robes. 



It was in the depth of the woods that my saucy 

 black-cap, the titmouse, clambered straight up the 

 vertical bole of an oak sapling, as if he had learned 

 the trick from the brown creeper or the white- 

 breasted nuthatch. No less interesting was the 

 conduct of the downy woodpecker, that little drum- 

 major of the woods. He is the tilter par excellence 

 of the woodpecker family. He flings himself in the 

 most reckless manner from trunk to branch, and 

 from branch to twig, often alighting back-downward 

 on the slenderest stems. Shall 1 describe one of 

 his odd tricks? I had often seen him chnging to 

 the slender withes of the willows at the border of 



