WINTER BIRDS. 227 



is the aspect of our field in summer, when 

 the hot breath meets one everywhere, and 

 every tree displays masses of golden-green 

 foliage. . . . 



Six months have gone quickly by. The snow 

 has fallen thickly for many days, and the path- 

 ways across the expanse are no longer to be seen . 

 We wade wearily to our field, and stand by the 

 wall. It is cold and forbidding, and we hardly 

 care to enter. Life has forsaken it, and only 

 over the white surface appear the dead crack- 

 ling sprays of a few tall plants that dare to 

 brook the blast. " Tweet, tweet ! " comes 

 through the cold thin air, almost startling amid 

 the surrounding stillness. A flock of Linnets 

 and Goldfinches ! 



And this is our second picture — A tall, nod- 

 ding thistle-head, its once dark-green leaves 

 shrivelled up and turned to grey, its purple 

 flower-rays to russet-brown. Yet they contain 

 ripened seeds. A Goldfinch hangs to the under 

 surface, and a russet-breasted Linnet clings to 

 the topmost spray. The two frail things are 

 not unlike in form, though the Goldfinch is 

 by far the handsomer bird. His prettily shaped 

 beak is flesh coloured, as are also his legs. His 



