THE OPEN WINDOW 



entranced at his mirrored image, then dashes in with 

 vigorous splashings and flies away with that triumphant 

 attitude which a bird so often affects after his tub. 

 The thermometer is so low that I shiver at his daring; 

 but flirting the water from his protecting coat he darts 

 to a sunny twig-top to complete his toilet. Early one 

 morning this water was entirely covered with so thick 

 a film of ice that robin after robin skated over its 

 slippery surface in surprised dismay; but the sun soon 

 restored it to its normal condition and set the gold- 

 fish free. 



Back and forth among their larger brethren dart 

 the restless little goldfinches, no longer yellow and 

 black, but dressed now in their winter suits of sober 

 olive and scarcely to be recognized for the gay mites 

 we used to see swaying on the thistle heads in July. 

 To watch them now, hanging head downward on a 

 trumpet-vine bean, feathers all ruffed the wrong way 

 as they industriously extract the seeds from the open 

 pod, is to fall in love with them anew. 



Soon after the first of October come the juncos, a 



133 



