There are few of our land-birds that flock together in summer, and few that are solitary in winter,—­none that I recollect, except birds of prey.  And not only do birds of the same kind associate, but certain species are almost always found together.  Thus, the chickadee, the golden-crested wren, the white-breasted nuthatch, and, less constantly, the brown creeper and the downy woodpecker, form a little winter clique, of which you do not often see one of the members without one or more of the others.  No sound in nature more cheery and refreshing than the alternating calls of a little troop of this kind echoing through the glades of the woods on a still, sunny day in winter:  the vivacious chatter of the chickadee, the slender, contented pipe of the gold-crest, and the emphatic, business-like hank of the nuthatch, as they drift leisurely along from tree to tree.  The winter seems to be the season of holiday enjoyment to the chickadee, and he is never so evidently and conspicuously contented as in very cold weather.  In summer he withdraws to the thickets, and becomes less noisy and active.  His plumage becomes dull, and his brisk note changes to a fine, delicate pee-peh-wy, or oftenest a mere whisper.  They are so much less noticeable at this season that one might suppose they had followed their gold-crest companions to the North, as some of them doubtless do, but their nests are not uncommon with us.  Fearless as the chickadee is in winter,—­so fearless, that, if you stand still, he will alight upon your head or shoulder,—­in summer he becomes cautious about his nest, and will desert it, if much watched.  They build here, generally, in a partly decayed white-birch or apple-tree, excavating a hole eighteen inches or two feet deep,—­the chips being carefully carried off a short distance, so as not to betray the workman,—­and lining the bottom of it with a felting of soft materials, generally rabbits’ fur, of which I have taken from one hole as much as could be conveniently grasped with the hand.

Besides the species that we regularly count upon in winter, there are more or less irregular visitors at this season, some of them summer birds also,—­as the purple finch, cedar-bird, gold-finch, robin, the flicker, or pigeon woodpecker, and the yellow-bellied and hairy woodpeckers.  Others, again, linger on from the autumn, and sometimes through the winter,—­as the snow-bird, song-sparrow, tree-sparrow.  Still others are seen only in winter,—­as the brown and shore larks, the crossbills, redpolls, snow-buntings, pine grosbeak, and some of the hawks and owls; and of these some are merely accidental,—­as the pine grosbeak, which in 1836 appeared here in great numbers in October, and remained until May.  This beautiful and gentle bird (a sweet songster too) is doubtless a permanent resident within the United States, for I have seen them at the White Mountains in August.  What impels them to these occasional wanderings it is difficult to guess; it is obviously not mere stress of weather; for in 1836, as I have remarked, they came early in autumn and continued resident until late in the spring; and their food, being mainly the buds of resinous trees, must have been as easy to get elsewhere as here.  Their coming, like the crow’s staying, is a mystery to us.