unseen spirit-wing tips the slender twig and lets fall the scintillating shower, no slightest movement mars the enchanted vision. Above, in the far-off blue, I see the circling flock of doves, their snowy wings glittering in their upward flight--apt emblems in a scene so like a glimpse of spirit-land. A single vision such as this should wed the heart to winter’s loveliness, a loveliness inspiring and immaculate, for never in the cycle of the year does nature wear a face so void of earthly impress, so spirit-like, so near the heavenly ideal. One of the most striking features of the winter ramble in the woods is their impressive stillness. But stop awhile and listen. That very silence will give emphasis to every sound that soon shall vibrate on the clear atmosphere, for “little pitchers have big ears,” and wide-open eyes too. They will first be sure that the stick you hold is only a cane, and not the small boy’s gun which they have so learned to dread. Hark! even from the hollow maple at your side there comes a scraping sound, and in an instant more two black and shining eyes are peering down at us from the bulging hole above. Tut! don’t strike the little fellow. Had you only waited a moment longer, we would have seen him emerge from his concealment, and with frisky, bushy tail laid flat upon the bark, he would have hung head downward on the trunk, and watched our every movement; but now you’ve startled him, he thinks you mean mischief, and you’ll see his sparkling eyes no more at that knot-hole. Listen! Now we hear a rustling in the sere and snow-tipped weeds somewhere near by, and presently a little feathery form flits past, and settles yonder on the swaying rush. With feathers ruffled into a little fuzzy ball, he bustles around among the downy seeds, now prying in their midst, now hanging underneath, head up, head down, no matter which, it’s all the same to him. Now he stops short in his busy search, turns his little head jauntily from side to side, lifts his tufted crest, and sets free his pent-up glee--“See! see! see me sing! Chickadee-dee-dee!” Who has not heard that wee small voice ringing in the frosty air? and who, having heard it, has not longed to catch and cuddle that little feathery puff, the winter’s own darling, whose little warm heart and sprightly song temper the chill and enliven the cheerless days? [Illustration: MUTE PROPHECIES.] The bending rush but lightly feels the dainty form, and, if at all, it must delight to bear so sweet a burden. How dearly have I learned to love this little fellow, perhaps my special favorite among the birds; for while the others one by one desert us with the dying year for scenes more bright and sunny, the chickadee is content to share our lot; he is constant, always with us, ever full of sprightliness and cheer. No winter is known in his warm heart, no piercing blast can freeze the fountain of his song.