and snowflakes, old cronies who have not met in 

 the past eight months. 



The woods offer unlimited opportunity for mak- 

 ing acquaintances, and nothing else stimulates the 

 interest more than this. The keenest pleasure is 

 in meeting a new bird : a rare and subtle stimulus 

 not to be defined, to be experienced only and cher- 

 ished as a memory. You stand in the midst of 

 one of the mixed flocks of autumn — winter visit- 

 ants with a sprinkling of warblers, and perhaps a 

 blue-headed vireo and a pair of silent thrushes — 

 and recognize old friends, with a chance of dis- 

 covering a stranger. It calls out the zest for the 

 woods like an appetite for dinner — a finer, more 

 ethereal appetite, which is satisfied through the eye 

 and ear. Occasionally the blue-headed vireo may 

 be heard, though the season is far advanced, and 

 the little Parula warbler indulges in a spiritual and 

 melodious reverie, as if he already had visions of 

 another spring and was communicating in a state 

 of trance and ecstasy his prophetic thought. 



One supremely mellow day the last of Odtober, 

 there came a pair of hermits to a secluded spot, 

 flitting into a white oak, where they remained re- 

 garding me with round bright eyes. In due season 

 8 



