There are strange sounds for January. All the winter birds are doing
their share in the chorus and orchestra; crows, jays, woodpeckers,
nut-hatches, juncos, tree-sparrows. But suddenly a woodpecker begins a
new sound,--his vernal drumming! Not the mere tap, tap, tap, in quest
of insects, but the love-call drumming of the nidification season,
nearly three months ahead of time.

Swollen by recent rains, the river is two feet higher than usual.
There is a sheet of ice on either shore, but the water swiftly flows
down the narrow channel in the middle with a sound halfway between a
gurgle and a roar, mingled anon with the sound of grinding cakes of
ice. Suddenly away up at the bend of the river there is a sharp crack,
like the discharge of a volley of musketry. Swiftly it comes down the
ice, passes your feet with a distinct tremor, and your eyes follow the
sound down the river until the two walls of the cañon meet in the
perspective. In a small way you know how it would feel to hear the
rumble of an approaching seismic shock. Only there was no terror in
this. It was the laughter of the sunbeam fairies as they loosened the
architecture of "the elfin builders of the frost."

The recent rains have vivified the mosses clinging to the gray rocks
which jut out, halfway up the slope. Very tender and beautiful is
their vivid shade of green. Winter and summer, the mosses are always
with us. When the last late aster has faded, the last blue blossom of
the gentian changed to brown, the green mosses still remain. And the
more they are studied, the more fascinating they become. Take some
home and examine them with a hand lens, then with a microscope. You
will be charmed with the exquisite finish of their most minute parts.
Nature glories in the artistic excellence of infinitesimal
workmanship. The most beautiful part of her handiwork is that which is