P.M.—To Carlisle Bridge on river and meadow . . .

  Standing by the side of the river at Eleazer Davis’s Hill,—prepared to pace across it,—I hear a sharp fine screep from some bird, which at length I detect amid the button-bushes and willows. The screep was a note of recognition meant for me. I saw that it was a novel bird to me. Watching it a long time, with my glass and without it . . .

  It was evidently the golden-crested wren, which I have not made out before. This little creature was contentedly seeking its food here alone this cold winter day on the shore of our frozen river . . .