finch loses his bright feathers and canary-like song as the cold
season approaches, but not even a New England winter can rob him of his
sweet call and his cheerful spirits; and for one, I think him never more
winsome than when he bangs in graceful attitudes above a snow-bank, on a
bleak January morning.

Glad as we are of the society of the goldfinches and the red-polls at
this time of the year, we cannot easily rid ourselves of a degree of
solicitude for their comfort; especially if we chance to come upon them
after sunset on some bitterly cold day, and mark with what a nervous
haste they snatch here and there a seed, making the utmost of the few
remaining minutes of twilight. They will go to bed hungry and cold, we
think, and were surely better off in a milder clime. But, if I am to
judge from my own experience, the snow buntings awaken no such
emotions. Arctic explorers by instinct, they come to us only with real
arctic weather, and almost seem to be themselves a part of the
snow-storm with which they arrive. No matter what they are doing:
running along the street before an approaching sleigh; standing on a
wayside fence; jumping up from the ground to snatch the stem of a weed,
and then setting at work hurriedly to gather the seeds they have shaken
down; or, best of all, skimming over the snow in close order, their
white breasts catching the sun as they veer this way or that,--whatever
they may be doing, they are the most picturesque of all our cold-weather
birds. In point of suspiciousness their behavior is very different at
different times, as, for that matter, is true of birds generally. Seeing
the flock alight in a low roadside lot, you steal silently to the edge
of the sidewalk to look over upon them. There they are, sure enough,
walking and running about, only a few rods distant. What lovely
creatures, and how prettily they walk! But just as you are wishing,
perhaps, that they were a little nearer, they begin to fly from right
under your feet. You search the ground eagerly, right and left, but not
a bird can you discover; and still they continue to start up, now here,
now there, till you are ready to question whether, indeed, "eyes were
made for seeing." The "snow-flakes" wear protective colors, and, like
most other animals, are of opinion that, for such as lack the receipt of
fern-seed, there is often nothing safer than to sit still. The worse the
weather, the less timorous they are, for with them, as with wis