ZERO BIRDS 19 
The air was like iced wine. Every axe-stroke drove 
it tingling through my blood. 
Before attacking the hickory, however, I began to 
cut down the brush surrounding the doomed tree, so 
as to gain clear space for the axe-swing. Almost im- 
mediately a vindictive spice-bush in falling knocked 
off my glasses, and they fell into the snow some- 
where ahead of me. Without them I am in the same 
condition as a mole or a shrew, my sense of sight 
being only rudimentary. Down I plumped on my 
knees in the snow and fumbled in the half light with 
numbed fingers through the cold whiteness ahead. 
As I groped and grumbled in this lowly position, 
suddenly I heard the prelude to one of the most beau- 
tiful of winter dawn-songs. It was a liquid loud 
note full of rolling r’s. Perhaps it can be best rep- 
resented in print somewhat as follows: “Chip’r’r’r’r.”’ 
I forgot my lost glasses and my cold hands and my 
wet knees waiting for the song that I knew was com- 
ing. Another preliminary, rolling note or so, and there 
sounded from a low stump a wild, ringing song that 
could be heard for half a mile. “‘ Wheedle-wheedle- 
wheedle,”’ it began full of liquid bell-like overtones. 
Then the singer added another syllable to his strain 
and sang, ‘“‘Whee-udel, whee-udel, whee-udel.” 
Three times, with a short rest between, he sang the 
full double strain through, although it was so dark 
that only the ghostly, black tree-trunks could be 
seen against the white snow. I needed no sight of 
him, however, to recognize the singer. The song 
took me back to a bitter winter day in Philadelphia 
