How often in the woods and by-ways have I stopped and chatted with this diminutive friend as he nestled in some oscillating spray of golden-rod, or perhaps with jaunty strut shook down the new-fallen snow from some drooping branch of hemlock. I say “chatted,” for he is a talkative and entertaining little fellow, always ready to tell people “all about it,” if they will only ask him. He is generally too busy searching amid the dead and crumpled leaves for the indispensable _bug_ to intrude himself on any one; but once draw him into conversation and he will do his share of the talking--only, mind you, remove those big fur gloves and tippet, or he will put you to shame by crying, “See! see!” and showing you his little, bare feet. This pert atom can be saucy and cross if things don’t exactly suit his fancy; and, for whatever reason, he always seems out of patience at the sight of a _man_ all bundled up and mittened. I have noticed this repeatedly. “Take off some of those things,” he seems to say, “and let me see who you are, and then I’ll talk with you,” and with feathers puffed up like an indignant hen in miniature, he scolds and scolds. Then there are the little snow-birds, too. When the sad autumn days are upon us, when the dying leaves with ominous flush yield up their hold on life, and are borne to earth on wailing winds, and all nature seems filled with mocking phantoms of the summer’s life and loveliness; when we listen for the robin’s song and hear it not, or the thrush’s bell-like trill, and listen in vain; when we look into the southern sky and see the winged flocks departing behind the faded hills--it is at such a time, while the very air seems weighed with melancholy, that the snow-birds come with their welcome, twittering voices. All winter long these sprightly little fellows swarm the thickets and sheltering evergreens, frolicking in the new-fallen snow like sparrows in a summer pool. Sometimes they unite in flocks with the chickadees and invade the orchard, and even the kitchen door-yard, with their ceaseless chatter. If you open the window and scatter a few crumbs upon the porch, they are soon hopping among the grateful morsels with twittering thankfulness. And on a very cold day, should you leave the kitchen window standing open, they will perch upon the sill and preen their ruffled feathers. Always trusting and confiding when appreciated, but often coy and distant for want of just such kindness. [Illustration: THE TWITCH-UP.]