As I enter the woods the slate-colored snowbird starts up before me
and chirps sharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almost
metallic in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not esteemed a
snowbird at all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter,
and returns again in spring, like the song sparrow, and is not in
any way associated with the cold and the snow. So different are the
habits of birds in different localities. Even the crow does not
winter here, and is seldom seen after December or before March.

The snowbird, or "black chipping-bird," as it is known among the
farmers, is the finest architect of any of the ground-builders known
to me. The site of its nest is usually some low bank by the
roadside, near a wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially
concealed entrance, the exquisite structure is placed. Horse and cow
hair are plentifully used, imparting to the interior of the nest
great symmetry and firmness as well as softness.

Passing down through the maple arches, barely pausing to observe the
antics of a trio of squirrels,--two gray ones and a black one,--I
cross an ancient brush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks,
and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed nooks. In the deep
moss I tread as with muffled feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate
in the dim, almost religious light. The irreverent red squirrels,
however, run and snicker at my approach, or mock the solitude with
their ridiculous chattering and frisking.

This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter wren. This is the
only place and these the only woods in which I find him in this
vicinity. His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided by some
marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so