A WINTRY WILDERNESS. 
239 
the dark spruces was whirling his watchman’s 
rattle; far away in the forest a woodpecker was 
drumming on a resonant tree-trunk; but near 
at hand, only across one snow-covered field, a 
chorus of bird voices quivered in the still, cold 
air. The air was cold, that was true. Zero 
was the point the mercury held to, and as we 
took long breaths of the pure air we spouted 
forth columns of white steam through our ice- 
hung beards. Trotting up the road, we sought 
the birds. We found them at the next farm¬ 
house, perched by dozens on plum-trees, maple 
saplings by the road, and on the tips of a row 
of spruces opposite the farmyard. Some were 
in the road, others in the door yard on the soiled 
snow where oxen had stood. In all, over a 
hundred were present. As we drew near, they 
rose and flew in waving circles over us, every 
bird singing until the whole air seemed tingling 
with sound. Then they came down in undu¬ 
lating lines, curves, angles, and plunges, which 
turned aside into a second flight in the sunlight. 
As they settled in groups in the various trees, 
I swept my glass over one cluster after another. 
Crossbills were the most numerous species, with 
goldfinches a close second, and pine finches 
third. The crossbills were in all stages and 
conditions of plumage, from rich red males blaz¬ 
ing like dull coals plucked from the fire, to 
