136 PASTORAL DAYS. 



The bending rush but lightly feels the dainty form, and, if at all, it 

 must delight to bear so sweet a burden. How dearly have I learned to 

 love this little fellow, perhaps my special favorite among the birds ; for 

 while the others one by one desert us with the dying year for scenes 

 more bright and sunny, the chickadee is content to share our lot ; he is 

 constant, always with us, ever full of sprightliness and cheer. No winter 

 is known in his warm heart, no piercing blast can freeze the fountain of 

 his song. 



How often in the woods and by-ways have I stopped and chatted with 

 this diminutive friend as he nestled in some oscillating spray of golden- 

 rod, or perhaps with jaunty strut shook down the new-fallen snow from 

 some drooping branch of hemlock. I say " chatted," for he is a talkative 

 and entertaining little fellow, always ready to tell people " all about it," if 

 they will only ask him. He is generally too busy searching amid the 

 dead and crumpled leaves for the indispensable bug to intrude himself on 

 any one ; but once draw him into conversation and he will do his share 

 of the talking — only, mind you, remove those big fur gloves and tippet, 

 or he will put you to shame by crying, " See ! see !" and showing you his 

 littl. bare feet. This pert atom can be saucy and cross if things don't 

 exactly suit his fancy; and, for whatever reason, he always seems out of 

 patience at the sight of a man all bundled up and mittened. I have 

 noticed this repeatedly. " Take off some of those things," he seems to 

 say, " and let me see who you are, and then I'll talk with you," and with 

 feathers puffed up like an indignant hen in miniature, he scolds and 

 scolds. 



Then there are the little snow-birds, too. When the sad autumn days 

 are upon us, when the dying leaves 'with ominous flush yield up their 

 hold on life, and are borne to earth on wailing winds, and all nature seems 

 filled with mocking phantoms of the summer's life and loveliness ; when 

 we listen for the robin's song and hear it not, or the thrush's bell-like 

 trill, and listen in vain ; when we look into the southern sky and see the 

 winged flocks departing behind the faded hills — it is at such a time, 

 while the very air seems weighed with melancholy, that the snow-birds 

 come with their welcome, twittering voices. All winter lone these 

 sprightly little fellows swarm the thickets and sheltering evergreens, 

 frolicking in the new-fallen snow like sparrows in a summer pool. Some- 

 times they unite in flocks with the chickadees and invade the orchard, 

 and even the kitchen door-yard, with their ceaseless chatter. If you open 



