3o6 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



full sunshine. The bluejays, so noisy in the au- 

 tumn, are silent in midwinter. Rarely, indeed, 

 at the depth of winter do you hear one of them 

 utter the clear, clanging call of his race. But 

 the wood holds them still, and as the campfire 

 burns low they are apt to come about it, knowing 

 well that beside deserted campfires scraps of food 

 may be found. On such expeditions they come 

 on noiseless wing, whinnying one to another in 

 voices inaudible a few rods away. If one sees 

 you he may utter a single loud note of warning, 

 but that will be all, and the flock will scuttle 

 away on noiseless wings as they came. 



A nuthatch may come to perch upside down on 

 a tree nearby, blowing his elfin penny-trumpet 

 note, a brown creeper may screep tinily or a 

 downy woodpecker knock gently at the doors of 

 insects shut within the rotten wood, but only the 

 chickadees are noisy. Their volubility is proof 

 against the hush laid upon the forest by the west- 

 ering sun, and you can hear them sputtering their 

 way through the underbrush from afar. Birds 

 in the wood mostly leave a trail for the ear rather 

 than the eye. On such a day, even in the coki of 

 January, you may hear a ruffed grouse drum. 

 The seeping sun warms the cockles of his heart 



