The Thaw 



By O. Warren Smith 



Spring is imminent. Somewhere the robins, hhie birds, meadowlarks and 

 song sparrows — spring makers — are advancing northward. What's that? How 

 do I know? Have patience and I will explain. 



Recently, while the snow lay almost four feet deep in the swamp, I received 

 a "wireless" which set my heart a-bounding. Nothing more or less than a 

 common sapsucker beating tht long-roll to the South-Wind upon a resounding 

 dead branch. How the hollow sound awakened the long silent echoes of the 

 swamp, until the very air seemed to pulsate with the gladsome music. Yes, I 

 call it just that — "music." 



For two days of zero weather that bird drummed away with all the faith 

 of your true optimist, until I felt like shouting encouragingly, "Keep it up and 

 you will win out." 



The swamp was calling me, but I waited. Upon the fourth day after I 

 noticed the drumming, a slight change was discoverable, a certain indclinablc 

 intangible something had crept into the atmosphere. The sapsucker, half crazed 

 with delight, beat the long-roll in double time until all the woodpeckers took 

 up the refrain and my swamp fairly pulsated with the rolling, throbbing sound. 



I am never tired of watching the transforming miracles of falling snow, 

 over night accoin])lishing wonders beyond the power, of pen to describe ; but 

 a warm south wind will change the face of nature in a few short hours, destroy- 

 ing fantastic snow-drifts and liberating ice-bound creeks. A few warm days 

 and the snow settles rapidly. Listening, you can hear a low "seep, seep," the 

 »wan song of the snow. When the water begins to run in the sleigh tracks we 

 know that winter is all but defeated. 



Did you ever notice how restless the farmer's cattle become as soon 

 as the spring thaw sets in in earnest? They are no longer satisfied to feed 

 in the comfortable barn-yards, but must go out into the fields, where they 

 stand, knee-deep in the heavy snow, and gaze out upon their buried feeding 

 grounds. Why is it? What memories of bygone days haunt them? I, too. 

 am conscious of a desire to explore the woods and fields. I needs must up 

 and away. I, too, must respond to the insistent invitation of the sapsucker's 

 long-roll. Is it just an animal joy in the return of warm days, or is it a sub- 

 conscious memory of hairy ancestors, illy protected against the cold, rejoicing 

 once more in life? I leave that for the reader's speculation. 



There are two birds I look for these warming March da\s. precursors of 

 the real spring birds. The first is a constant dweller in the north ; no winter 

 is too cold for him : and yet the first hint of thaw sets his blood a-bounding. 

 and puts a new note in his throat. Down in the thick swamps, where the sap- 

 sucker and his relatives spend the winter, a little black and white bird feels 

 the urge of spring time and changes his note from "chick-a-dee-dee'' to "phoe- 

 be-e-e." Not uncommonly people will inform me that they have heard a phoebe 



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