fell on Christmas eve. Now every old wall „ 



and fence was a carved bench of gleaming 



white ; every post and stub had a soft white c)ff 



robe and a tall white hat ; and every little O^ristmas 



bush and thicket was a perfect fairyland of 



white arches and glistening columns, and 



dark grottoes walled about with delicate 



frostwork of silver and jewels. And then 



the glory, dazzling beyond all words, when 



the sun rose and shone upon it! 



Before sunrise I was out. Soon the jump- 

 ing flight and cheery good-morning of a 

 downy woodpecker led me to an old field 

 with scattered evergreen clumps. There is 

 no better time for a quiet peep at the birds 

 than the morning after a snowstorm, and no 

 better place than the evergreens. If you 

 can find them at all (which is not certain, 

 for they have mysterious ways of disap- 

 pearing before a storm), you will find them 

 unusually quiet, and willing to bear your 

 scrutiny indifferently, instead of flying off 

 into deeper coverts. 



I had scarcely crossed the wall when I 

 stopped at hearing a new bird song, so 



