12 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 



dandelion tells me when to look for the swallow, the 

 dog-toothed violet when to expect the wood-thrush, 

 and when I have found the wake-robin in bloom I 

 know the season is fairly inaugurated. With me this 

 flower is associated, not merely with the awakening 

 of Robin, for he has been awake some weeks, but 

 with the universal awakening and rehabilitation of 

 nature. 



Yet the coming and going of the birds is more or 

 less a mystery and a surprise. We go out in the 

 morning, and no thrush or vireo is to be heard; we 

 go out again, and every tree and grove is musical ; 

 yet again, and all is silent. Who saw them come f 

 Who saw them depart ? 



This pert little winter-wren, for instance, darting 

 in and out the fence, diving under the rubbish here 

 and coming up yards away, — how does he manage 

 with those little circular wings to compass degrees 

 and zones, and arrive always in the nick of time ? 

 Last August I saw him in the remotest wilds of the 

 Adirondacs, impatient and inquisitive as usual ; a few 

 weeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by the 

 same hardy little busybody. Does he travel by easy 

 Btages from bush to bush and from wood to wood ? 

 or has that compact little body force and courage to 

 brave the night and the upper air, and so achieve 

 leagues at one pull ? 



And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his 

 breast and the sky tinge on his back, — did he come 

 down out of heaven on that bright March morning 



