1 6 A MARCH RAMBLE. 



over his head, all the time barking in the most dis- 

 tressed manner. 



A small company of goldfinches and red-polls 

 have just flown into a growth of beeches, fluttering 

 among the branchlets and clinging in all kinds of 

 positions on the slender twigs, inspecting the sharp, 

 thorn-like buds and peering into the persistent 

 last year's catkins. They hurry from tree to tree 

 as if they did not expect to find much to eat 

 here, but had dropped down merely to ascertain 

 the prospects while on their way to some ever- 

 green caravansary to obtain shelter for the night. 

 Presently they light on the snow and leisurely go 

 hopping off northwestward, picking up crumbs 

 from the white tablecloth ; a scanty meal indeed, 

 it seems, yet how sleek and plump they look in 

 their shining olive-brown overcoats, trimmed with 

 yellow and white. Ah ! these finches knew, ages 

 before the botanist, how much nourishment was 

 stored up in the seeds and buds. How silent they 

 are ! It is now no time for song and mirth ; 

 every moment must be spent in supplying their lit- 

 tle furnaces with a sufficient accumulation of heat. 

 Many asters and golden-rod, beech and pine-trees 

 in embryo, burn away in their living ovens to 

 keep the sturdy little creatures alive and warm. 



