As I listened, delighted with the carol and the minstrel's novel
situation, a mass of snow, loosened by the sun, slid from the snow
bower, and a pine-grosbeak appeared in the doorway. A moment he seemed
to look about curiously over the new, white, beautiful world; then he
hopped to the topmost twig and, turning his crimson breast to the
sunrise, poured out his morning song; no longer muffled, but sweet and
clear as a wood-thrush bell ringing the sunset.
Once, long afterward, I heard his softer love song, and found his nest
in the heart of a New Brunswick forest. Till then it was not known
that he ever built south of Labrador. But even that, and the joy of
discovery, lacked the charm of this rare sweet carol, coming all
unsought and unexpected, as good things do, while our own birds were
spending the Christmas time and singing the sunrise in Florida.
XV. MOOWEEN THE BEAR.
[Illustration]
Ever since nursery times Bruin has been largely a creature of
imagination. He dwells there a ferocious beast, prowling about gloomy
woods, red eyed and dangerous, ready to rush upon the unwary traveler
and eat him on the spot.
Sometimes, indeed, we have seen him out of imagination. There he is a
poor, tired, clumsy creature, footsore and dusty, with a halter round
his neck, and a swarthy foreigner to make his life miserable.
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