and then finally I saw him. Was there anything significant in the fact that he was perched on a branch that hung close down to the gurgling stream and lifted his head to directly face the sun? I think there was. How could he have sung so sweetly and spontaneously,facing the opposite direction?
     As I advanced towards the Bridge, many field sparrows and goldfinches flew up and ahead, the finches uttering the same little cries. Finally they all assembled in an appletree at the edge of the swamp, watching my approach in half curiousity and trepidation. As I came up, the sparrows loathe to leave the swamp flew up and overhead back to where they were at first. The gold finches however - and what dainty birds they are in winter – flew up and away in a flock, their rising and falling flight reminded one of so much chaff blown helter-skelter by the wind.
     At the Bridge I stopped at the south opening in its side, and sat down, directly above the stream. Below was the turbulent muddy colored creek, sparkling in the sunshine.  Pieces of water-soaked ice floated swiftly