224 
A Basket of Chips. 
and, perhaps, an occasional note from one 
or two big, overgrown fox sparrows that 
have lingered thus far uiorth, either a 
high, chirpy chip or a tseet very much 
like that of the whitethroats. And un¬ 
derlying all, leaving no interstices, are 
the many bits of sound contributed to 
the general chorus by the loquacious tree 
sparrows and juncos. The former fill 
the air with liquid splinters, each of 
which sounds like a nasal e-lick', and 
w'hich have been aptly likened to the 
clink of a tiny stone chisel; the juncos, 
true genii of winter in this latitude, are a 
well-equipped battery of wintry notes, — 
icy tinklings, electric snappings, and pe¬ 
culiar muffled tones, such as accompany 
a stone skipping over a frozen pond. 
It may be that in the cover to which 
these birds are making frequent trips 
en masse to escape a real or more often 
imaginary hawk, or other bugaboo, there 
is a cardinal. If so, it is easy to detect 
his loud, commanding clink above the 
twittering uproar of the frightened mob. 
Or we may hear from him a peculiar ut¬ 
terance, — a series of percussive notes, 
to-to-to-to- to, followed by a whirring 
sound that recalls the drum roll some¬ 
times made by a horse with his lips. 
It is, perhaps, from frequent associa¬ 
tion with the cardinal that the juncos have 
acquired a to-to-to that is the cardinal’s 
own on a smaller scale, and that is often 
used by them as the expression of some 
emotion incident to their winter’s sojourn 
in the South. Their commonest note, 
however, is the little crystalline tinkle. 
This bit of frosty music characterizes 
every winter ramble ; for the juncos have 
appropriated our season of bare woods 
and fields and made it their own. Go 
where you will, the juncos, with their 
clean, neutral wintry colors, are there 
before you. That walk must indeed be 
barren of birds that does not yield sight 
or sound of at least one of these spirits of 
snow and ice. Sometimes I have come 
upon an immense flock of them in a cor¬ 
ner of a pine wood, — for they ai’e ubi¬ 
quitous, and are as likely to be found in 
dense woods as in the open, — splitting 
its silence into tiny slivers with their mul¬ 
titudinous snappings and tinklings. 
What trim little birds they are ! And 
how demure their Quaker garb ! They 
seem to have been colored by the same 
artist that painted the field of snow and 
the gray sky that meets it at the horizon. 
I am glad we do not have them with us 
in summer, for they belong so wholly 
to the winter. 
But this last supply of chips has quite 
filled our small basket, and we must de¬ 
fer the gathering of more to that future 
day that may or may not dawn. A 
pleasant and profitable expedition it has 
been, for we have filled our souls as we 
have filled our basket, and have breathed 
the tonic air of purity and peace. Our 
spiritual lungs will be better able to resist 
the miasmatic atmosphere of the world to 
which we must return,—a world whose 
responsibilities and duties we cannot shirk, 
if we would, but can only leave behind 
for a brief respite. 
Yet, as we make our way from world 
to world, let us linger a moment to note 
this band of cedar birds resting motion¬ 
less in the top of a tall tree, and seem¬ 
ingly all unconscious of the whining tone 
of a single pitch that oozes from their 
many throats. We have not yet passed 
the confines of this land of loitering, and 
may stop to listen and see without fear 
of reproach. 
How still they are! Has not some 
whimsical taxidermist passed this way 
and filled the tree with samples of his 
skill ? It is hard to believe that these 
sleek, fawn-colored bodies, rigid and up¬ 
right, and that penetrating tone of com¬ 
plaint, are in any way related. The 
sound seems like a dog’s whine, disem¬ 
bodied, and hovering for the moment 
above our heads. Only for the moment, 
for at some imperceptible signal the en¬ 
tire flock has suddenly risen with a single 
movement, and is on its way to a distant 
