106 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



ginning to uncurl. What a strong, assertive, spirited bend is in their 

 backs, like that of a sea horse, or a particularly boastful question point. 

 "Did you ever see anything better done now?" each one seems to say. 



There are partridge berries glowing red about the tree trunks, and 

 long green sword ferns trailing their skirts across the withered leaves 

 of the season before. How sleek are the buds on the bushes by the 

 patch. There is a gathering of new life in everything, and even the 

 hum of the mosquitoes and the dancing of gnats and small flies is 

 proof of the universal joy that winter is banished and gone. 



Violets, violets everywhere. Here are tall purple beauties in Clus- 

 ters; here are pale blue ones, short stemmed and scattered thickly over 

 the ground in sunny places. On the edge of the brook there are white 

 fairy-like blossoms, with three petals delicately veined in brown. 

 Some woodland artist must have done the work, for none save a brush 

 of cob web fibers could paint those almost invisible shades. 



Deeper into the woods we stray. A partridge drums in the distance, 

 and a blue jay teils us not to "dilly-dally, dilly-dally." From a limb 

 almost over the path hangs a grayish white ball, as large as an ordi- 

 nary water pail. The memory of boyish experiences with balls of that 

 kiud makes us turn respectfully aside, coming back to the path a rod 

 er more beyond. Hornets are good Citizens of the woods, but they do 

 not deal kindly with trespassers. 



A red squirrel Standing erect on a stump is eyeing us suspiciously. 

 He cocks his head gravely to one side, as though considering our in- 

 tentions. Another begins to chatter at a little distance, his remarks 

 gradually becoming more audible, and more personal. He appears 

 suddenly on the stump and an interesting game of tag begins, the two 

 playmates scurrying over the ground, leaping over dry branches and 

 rustling merrily through the dead leaves of last autumn. Finally both 

 squirrels run up an oak tree, and, impatient at our persistent oversight 

 of their game, begin to scold. 



The ground underneath is füll of humble beauty. Here the path is 

 strewn with cones and bunches of gray moss, and among them, evi- 

 dence that crabbed age and youth can live harmoniously together, a 

 bunch of dainty violets. Through the dry leaves are yards of running 

 evergreen, fresh and vigorous from its sleep under the snows, and 

 putting forth tiny white buds at the ends of all its branches. 



What, a thrush's voice in the distance? Listen! "Oh, holy, holy, 

 holy!" The shine and glory of the sun, the warmth of spring love is 

 in his voice, dreamy though it be. 



The oak leaves are just opening, small, furry, shaded red bits of life, 

 vigorous even in their babyhood when compared with the pallid green- 



