pirouetting he smashes the window with his bill, runs his long tongue
down the passageway, gulps the grub and away he flies to join his
comrades down in the birches, chirping gaily as he goes.

Downy woodpecker "pleeks" his happiness as he excavates the twig of a
silver maple. Probably he has found the larvæ which the wood wasp left
there in the fall. The big hairy woodpecker flies across the clearing
with a strident scream. Next to the crow and the jay he is the
noisiest fellow in the winter woods. He hammers away at a decaying
basswood and the chips which fall are an inch and a half long. His
hammering is almost as loud as the bark of a squirrel in the trees
across the river. The blood-red spot on the back of his head has an
exquisite glow in the sunshine, and you get a fine look at it, for he
is busily working little more than a rod from where you stand. He does
wonderful work with that strong bill. One decaying basswood found
recently was eighteen inches in diameter and the woodpeckers had
drilled big holes clear through it. The pile of their chips at the
base would have filled a bushel basket.

By the time you have reached the spring the woods are full of life and
sound, and the spring itself adds to the winter music. The rocks where
it bubbles out are thickly covered with hoar frost. One of the big
blocks of limestone in its causeway is covered with ice, clear and
viscid as molten glass. The river is bridged over with ice twenty
inches thick, save only the little gulf stream into which the spring
pours its waters. From the surface of this stream thin smoky wreaths
of vapor rise and are changed into crystals by the frosty air. But the
waters of the spring gush forth as abundantly and musically now as
they did in the hot days of last July, and the clam-shell with which
you then drank is still in its place by the rock. The pure, melodious,