ny others are to be found for the
looking. All tell the story of Nature's abundant life,--even the
morning after a February snow storm. All speak

_"Of one maternal spirit bringing forth
And cherishing with ever constant love,
That tires not, nor betrays."_

But snowstorms will soon be over. The nature-lover's spring begins
near the end of the month, sometimes just before, sometimes just
after. The snow and the ice will be honeycombed by the sun and we
shall begin to look for the sap trickling from the maple, and to
strain our ears for the first note of the wild goose and the
blue-bird,

_"While winter, slumbering in the open air
Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring."_

The frequent rambler through the winter woods can scarcely fail to
become acquainted with all the winter birds. The different species are
not numerous, few of them are very shy, they are easily seen because
of the bare trees, and their habits tend to call attention to them;
especially is this true of the woodpeckers. It is true, of course,
that one may sometimes walk in the woods for hours, scarcely seeing a
single bird. But it is also true that if he starts out some sunny
morning, and seeks a tract of heavy timber near a river, he will be
very likely to see and hear nearly all of them.

Such a ramble was enjoyed during the halcyon days we had this year
(1907) in February. By 10 o'clock the woods were fairly ringing with
bird-calls. Over a meadow, near the entrance to the woods, a
red-tailed hawk was circling about twenty-five feet from the ground,
as if in search of meadow mice. The field glass showed the black band
on his breast and tail, which, with his bright red tail, sufficiently
established his identity.

The first bird seen in the woods was a white-breasted nuthatch,
working on the trunk of a red birch on the river bottom. Next to the
chickadee, he is the tamest bird of the woodlands. One may easily get
within six feet of him, as was done on this occasion, and admire his
beautiful ashy-blue coat, his white vest and white cheeks, with his
black cap and nape. He pulled a fat white grub from the birch with his
long, slender bill and ate it with evident relish. Then he uttered
his soft "quank, quank" and gently flew to another tree.

Sometimes these "quank, quanks" come in a loud and rapid series and
may easily be heard a quarter of a mile on a still day.

A flock of juncos were busy among the dead leaves and the