nother direction. I halted under an elm to listen.  Somehow the notes did not seem so desolate as on last Sunday, and yet they did have a touch of wistfulness in them.  Suddenly, to my delight, a pair of tiny birds flew out from Beech Hill, and alighted in the tree under which I was standing, where he again began to call.  I did not move, for I could watch him over my shoulder.  Presently he hopped to the other side of the tree; in order now to see him I must move.  As I turned, he became alarmed, and to my surprise – nay almost my chagrin at being fooled – he cried “Chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee”!
     As I went on again, now and then pieces of frost came falling down from the trees showing that the sun was at last making his power felt.  Going thru the underbrush between Stump Hill and the creek, I saw that here it was as frosty as ever.  On one place I saw a bush with some hanging cluster of berry seeds, which I recognized as poison sumac, the first I have ever seen around here.  At the Bridge, as I stopped to view the whiteness on every side, I experienced the same thrills as when I entered Hawthorne Meadow.