IN THE HEMLOCKS 43 
tifully used, imparting to the interior of the nest 
great symmetry and firmness as well as softness. 
Passing down through the maple arches, barely 
pausing to observe the antics of a trio of squirrels, 
— two gray ones and a black one, —I cross an an- 
cient brush fence and am fairly within the old hem- 
locks, and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed 
nooks. In the deep moss I tread as with muffled 
feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the dim, 
almost religious light. The irreverent red squivrels, 
however, run and snicker at my approach, or mock 
the solitude with their ridiculous chattering and 
frisking. 
This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter 
wren. ‘This is the only place and these the only 
woods in which [I find him in this vicinity. His 
voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided by some 
marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very 
strong for so small a bird, and unites in a remark- 
able degree brilliancy and plaintiveness. I think 
of a tremulous vibrating tongue of silver. You 
may know it is the song of a wren, from its gush- 
ing lyrical character; but you must needs look sharp 
to see the little minstrel, especially while in the 
act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground 
and the leaves; he never ascends the tall trees, but 
keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and from 
root to root, dodging in and out of his hiding- 
places, and watching all intruders with a suspicious 
eye. He has a very pert, almost comical look. 
His tail stands more than perpendicular: it points 
