aught asleep on the shore. He
saw me, and kept making short flights from point to point in a great
circle--five miles, perhaps, and always in the open--evidently loath
to abandon his feast to the crows; while I followed with growing
wonder and respect, trying every device of the still hunter to creep
within range. That was the same owl which I last saw at dusk, flying
straight out to sea among the gulls.

[Illustration: A CHRISTMAS CAROL]

XIV.

The Christmas carol, sung by a chorus of fresh children's voices, is
perhaps the most perfect expression of the spirit of Christmastide.
Especially is this true of the old English and German carols, which
seem to grow only sweeter, more mellow, more perfectly expressive of
the love and good-will that inspired them, as the years go by. Yet
always at Christmas time there is with me the memory of one carol
sweeter than all, which was sung to me alone by a little minstrel from
the far north, with the wind in the pines humming a soft
accompaniment.

* * * * *

Doubtless many readers have sometimes seen in winter flocks of
stranger birds--fluffy gray visitors, almost as large as a
robin--flying about the lawns with soft whistling calls, or feeding on
the ground, so tame and fearless that they barely move aside as you
approach. The beak is short and thick; the back of the head and a
large patch just above the tail are golden brown; and across the wings
are narrow double bars of white. All the rest is soft gray, dark above
and light beneath. If you watch them on the ground, you will see that
they have a curious way of moving about like a golden-winged
woodpecker in the same position. Sometimes they put one foot before
the other, in funny little attempt at a dignified walk, like the
blackbirds; again they hop like a robin, but much more awkwardly, as
if they were not accustomed to walking and did not quite know how to
use their feet--which is quite true.

The birds are pine-grosbeaks, and are somewhat irregular winter
visitors from the far north. Only when the cold is most severe, and
the snow lies deep about Hudson Bay, do they leave their nesting
places to spend a few weeks in bleak New England as a winter resort.
Their stay with us is short and uncertain. Long ere the first bluebird
has whistled to us from the old fence rail that, if we please, spring
is coming, the grosbeaks are whistling of spring, and singing their
love songs in the f