AT THE FOOT OF PASSACONAWAY. 
Wednesday, December 23, dawned under a 
damp sky. Tripyramid kept on his nightcap, 
and patches of mist clung to the dark precipice 
of Passaconaway. The mountains looked 
higher and more threatening than on previous 
days, and they seemed closer to us than when 
the sun shone. A whisper of falling drops and 
settling snow ruffled the morning calm. Nev¬ 
ertheless, patches of blue sky showed in the 
west, and once or twice a silvery spot in the 
clouds suggested the sun’s burning through. 
We went first to see our favorite flock of birds 
at the cattle-trough in the pasture. They were 
there in full force, nearly if not quite a hundred 
strong. They allowed me to come within about 
twenty feet of them, and to watch them nar¬ 
rowly through my glass. Rather more than 
half were red crossbills. Of the remainder, 
two thirds were pine finches, and one third gold¬ 
finches. No red-polls were to be seen. The 
coloring in the crossbills was amazingly diverse. 
There were very brilliant males with cinnabar 
tints wherever such color is ever found. From 
