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 small a bird, and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy and plaintiveness.  I think of a tremulous vibrating tongue of silver.  You may know it is the song of a wren, from its gushing lyrical character; but you must needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, especially while in the act of singing.  He is nearly the color of the ground and the leaves; he never ascends the tall trees, but keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and from root to root, dodging in and out of his hiding-places, and watching all intruders with a suspicious eye.  He has a very pert, almost comical look.  His tail stands more that perpendicular:  it points straight toward his head.  He is the least ostentatious singer I know of.  He does not strike an attitude, and lift up his head in preparation, and, as it were, clear his throat; but sits there on a log and pours out his music, looking straight before him, or even down at the ground.  As a songster, he has but few superiors.  I do not hear him after the first week in July.

While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting the pungent acidulous wood-sorrel, the blossoms of which, large and pink-veined, rise everywhere above the moss, a rufous-colored bird flies quickly past, and, alighting on a low limb a few rods off, salutes me with “Whew!  Whew!” or “Whoit!  Whoit!” almost as you would whistle for your dog.  I see by his impulsive, graceful movement, and his dimly speckled breast, that it is a thrush.  Presently he utters a few soft, mellow, flute-like notes, one of the most simple expressions of melody to be heard, and scuds away, and I see it is the veery, or Wilson’s thrush.  He is the least of the thrushes in size, being about that of the common bluebird, and he may be distinguished from his relatives