WINTER BIRDS. 229 



streams and the hedges, descend the flakes of 

 snow — soft, silent, and slow. 



The Poacher will have a glorious time with his 

 " gins " and " springes " and nets. Now he 

 closely scans the weather, and will at evening 

 pass under the wood and down by the " Hag " 

 path. Heavily does he wade through the snow, 

 his old black bitch doggedly following at his 

 heels. 



For hours from my look-out I have been 

 sweeping with my glass the snow-plumed pines 

 in search of a flock of interesting birds that do 

 not appear. But in such weather as this the 

 Crossbills always arrive. In severe winters I 

 have never looked in vain for them in the pine 

 wood. There they are ! now on the upper, 

 now on the lower branches ; so tame that we 

 may approach unheeded. The birds give out 

 a constant twitter, and ever repeat their not 

 unmusical call-notes. Never still, they are 

 constantly changing position, fluttering from 

 branch to branch, constantly sending down 

 showers of cones and scales, and themselves 

 hanging in every conceivable position. Nimbly 

 they go, parrot-like, along the under sides of 

 the boughs, climbing and holding with bill and 



