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E had planned to walk over to the pond to see if the recent thaw had spoiled the skating. As we passed the foot of the hill, the little brook splashed and tumbled down from its icy frame-work, eddying around the brown goldenrod stalks, and then rushed on at topmost speed across the opposite meadow.

We were standing on the little bridge, watching the ever fascinating current, when an odd bird-note called our attention to a little gray-backed, white-breasted bird who was running up and down a neighboring tree.

All thoughts of skating instantly vanished from our minds; we climbed the fence, and in a moment more were noiselessly following our obstinate little bird, who would keep so high up in the tree-tops that it was almost impossible to see anything but his breast.

Finally, he descended, head downward, along one of the lower branches of the tree, and we saw that it was a White-breasted Nuthatch. Evidently he thought he had stayed quite long enough for examination, so, after a few parting pecks at the rough bark, trying to secure one more hidden insect, he flew off. We were slowly following the course of the little stream, when suddenly a great rustle of the dead leaves near the water&rsquo;s edge caused us to pause and listen. All was silent, with the exception of a few distant Chickadees, then, with a whir and a clatter, we saw a bushy tail disappear into the thicket; a moment more and out came a beautiful gray squirrel. Like a flash he was up the tree, jumping from limb to limb, frisking about in the sunshine, then down onto the ground again, and away. His visit was even shorter than that of the Nuthatch, but not less enjoyable.

And now, where were those noisy little Chickadees who had been calling to us from the alder bushes for the last half-hour? It was easy enough to find these confiding little creatures; they were feeding on the ground, and seemed quite unconcerned at our presence, although we approached very near to them. One little fellow seemed