FIRST.COMERS. at 
of swollen brooks, mingle in our ears as we pick our way 
along the muddy paths; until, some bright April morning, 
we discover that surly Winter is gone, and coy Spring is 
shyly waiting for us to bid her welcome. 
In this company of the heralds of this admirable change 
of the seasons, none have a better part than the birds, whose 
wings bear beauty and song. Half a dozen of these mes- 
sengers—the bluebird, the wren, the dove, and the black- 
birds—are especially first-comers, and to them I ask atten- 
tion. The song-sparrow also belongs here, by good right, 
but he enjoys an essay all to himself elsewhere. 
Among the very earliest are the familiar bluebirds; in- 
deed, they may occasionally be found all winter long in 
sunny fields. By All-fools-day they have become com. 
mon, and are seeking their mates, which are soon found. 
Meanwhile, from every field, and about the yet desolate 
gardens, is heard the bluebird’s cheery voice. It is a hap- 
py, contented warble, and, though no great credit belongs 
to the singer as a musician, his tender melody is among the 
most delightful of vernal sounds. There is an ubiquity or 
ventriloquistic peculiarity about this song—whether due to 
its quality or to the capricious breeze upon which it is usu- 
ally borne, I do not know—which tends to make its source 
indefinite. You may hear the notes on a bright March 
