The nuthatches, of which we have at least two, male and female, as I know by the different color of their crowns, have not yet discovered the nuts, but come regularly to the suet in the trees, and pretty often to a piece that is nailed upon one of my window-sills. I hear the fellow’s pleasant, contented, guttural, grunting notes, and rise to look at him, liking especially to watch the tidbits as they travel one after another between his long mandibles. Even if he does not call out, I know that it is he, and not a chickadee, by the louder noise he makes in driving his bill into the fat. I have fancied, all winter, that the birds--these two nuthatches, I mean--were mated, seeing them so often together; and perhaps they are; but the other day I witnessed a little performance that seemed to put another complexion upon the case. I was leaving the yard when I heard bird notes, repeated again and again, which I did not recognize. To the best of my recollection they were quite new. I looked up into a tree, and there were the two nuthatches, one chasing the other from branch to branch, with that peculiarly dainty, fluttering, mincing action of the wings, a sort of will-you-be-mine motion, which birds are given to using in the excitement of courtship. There could be no doubt of it, though it was only the 10th of February: Corydon was already “paying attentions” to Phyllis. Success to him! I notice, also, that chickadees are beginning to whistle a “Phœbe” with considerable frequency, though there is nothing in the weather to encourage them. Birds have an almanac of their own. Spring is coming. A GOOD-BY TO WINTER Winter is not quite done, but it will be by the time this “Clerk” is printed. That is to say, _my_ winter will be done. In this respect, as in many others, I am a conservative. My calendar is of the old school. “There are four seasons in the year--spring, summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” So we began our school compositions; and by “spring” we meant the spring months--March, April, and May. The temperature might belie the almanac; there might be “six weeks’ sledding in March;” but when March began, spring began. And by the way, what a capital subject that was--“The Seasons”! A theme without beginning and without end; a theme to be taken seriously or humorously, in prose or verse; a theme of universal interest. Best of all, there was no difficulty about the first sentence. No need to sit for half an hour chewing the end of one’s pencil and waiting for inspiration. Down it went: “There are four seasons in the year--spring, summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” We never omitted to say “autumn or fall;” the synonymy helped out the page, and gave us the more time in which to consider what we should say next. That is the great difficulty in authorship. On that shoal many a good ship has struck. A man who always has something to say next is bound to get on--as a “space writer,” if as nothing else.