SPRING AT THE CAPITAL 129 



came the first strain of the song sparrow; so homely, 

 because so old and familiar, yet so inexpressibly 

 pleasing. Presently a full chorus of voices arose, 

 tender, musical, half suppressed, but full of genuine 

 hilarity and joy. The bluebird warbled, the robin 

 called, the snowbird chattered, the meadowlark 

 uttered her strong but tender note. Over a de- 

 serted field a turkey buzzard hovered low, and 

 alighted on a stake in the fence, standing a moment 

 with outstretched, vibrating wings till he was sure 

 of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding day. Roads 

 becoming dry in many places, and looking so good 

 after the mud and the snow. I walk up beyond 

 the boundary and over Meridian Hill. To move 

 along the drying road and feel the delicious warmth 

 is enough. The cattle low long and loud, and look 

 wistfully into the distance. I sympathize with 

 them. Never a spring comes but I have an almost 

 irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadic or mi- 

 grating instinct or reminiscence stirs within me. I 

 ache to be off. 



As I pass along, the high-hole calls in the dis- 

 tance precisely as I have heard him in the North. 

 After a pause he repeats his summons. What can 

 be more welcome to the ear than these early first 

 sounds ! They have such a margin of silence ! 



One need but pass the boundary of Washington 

 city to be fairly in the country, and ten minutes' 

 walk in the country brings one to real primitive 

 woods. The town has not yet overflowed its limits 

 like the great Northern commercial capitals, and 



