48 IN BIRD LAND. 



a large oak-tree at the border of the woods. Pres- 

 ently he cried, Yank ! yank ! as if to announce a 

 discovery. Then he pecked and pried with all his 

 might, until at length he drew a grain of corn out 

 of a crevice of the bark, placed it in a shallow pocket 

 on the other side of the tree, and began to pick it 

 to pieces, swallowing the fragments as he broke them 

 off. When this grain had been disposed of, he 

 found another, and then another, until his hunger 

 seemed to be appeased, when he darted off into 

 the woods. 



Other pedestrians and observers may differ from 

 ' me both in temperament and habits, but to my 

 mind nothing could be more delightful than a 

 ramble in a snow-storm. Let the wind blow a gale 

 from the west, driving the cold pellets blindingly 

 into your face, and trying to rob you of your over- 

 coat and cap ; yet, if you have the spirit of the 

 genuine rambler, your blood will tingle with delight, 

 as well as with a sense of masterly overcoming, as 

 you plod along ; while you feel that every fierce gust 

 that strikes you is only one of Nature's love-taps, — 

 a little rough, it is true, but for that very reason all 

 the more expressive of affection. Stalking forth 

 into the teeth of a winter storm develops the hardy 

 traits of character, and puts the ingredients from 

 which heroes are made into the pulsing veins. 

 Many a time, as I have pushed my way triumphantly 

 through the pelting wind, I have answered with a 

 shout of joy ICmerson's vigorous challenge, — ■ 



