Down by the branches on cold frosty mornings you will find a little brown ball of a bird, that with tail tilted up over his back dives under every bridge, slides into every brush-heap, or hides tantalizingly behind every log that comes in his path. Not shy, yet not bold, he disappears from view at the most exasperating moments. Coming with the frosts, going away when they cease, he certainly deserves the name of winter wren. Shorter than the Carolina, darker on the back and tail, his nervous, fidgety manner makes it an easy matter to distinguish him from his more talented cousin. In these winter woods he never sings. Beyond an occasional metallic “chip” now and then I have never heard him give utterance to the emotions that fill his plump little breast. He is the silent observer of the busy life about him, a sitter in his own chimney corner, where he smokes his pipe and studies life subjectively, a modest little philosopher in cinnamon brown and black. Darting in and out among the lower branches of a giant beech, now flitting to a new position with movements as sudden and unexpected as those of a hummingbird, now running along a limb like the brown creeper, comes another tiny friend the ruby crowned kinglet. A plain little Quaker he seems in his suit of olive green without a patch of yellow or black to relieve the severe simplicity of his garb. Even the tufts of brilliant red feathers on his head is concealed from vulgar gaze. If you have sharp eyes and a moderate degree of patience your efforts to get a glimpse of the red tuft will by and by be crowned with success, but don’t be disappointed if you don’t see the ruby the first time you see the bird. I had observed the cheerful little chap time after time in my morning rambles in the woods, and had come to know every twist and motion of the tiny body before I caught a glimpse of the longed-for tuft. Finally one morning as he bent his head to pick up some sweet tid-bit the olive-green feathers parted and I saw his tiny crown. A modest genial little anarchist he is, never parading his opinions before an admiring public, but suddenly springing down in front of us on some low bush he flaunts his red flag and is gone before we realize it. Having once learned how and when to look for his crown it is an easy matter to find it again whenever his little majesty feels inclined to give you the opportunity. James Stephen Compton. [Illustration: IRISH MOSS. Chondrus crispus. Gigartina mamillosa. FROM KŒHLER’S MEDICINAL-PFLANZEN.] Description of Plate.—A, B, C, D, different forms of Irish moss; E. F., forms of Gigartina mamillosa; 1, section of thallus of G. mamillosa; 2, 3, 4, sections of Chondrus crispus. IRISH MOSS. (_Chondrus crispus_ lyngb.)