A BIRD MEDLEY 79 
“Steering north, with raucous cry, 
Through tracts and provinces of sky, 
Every night alighting down 
In new landscapes of romance, 
Where darkling feed the clamorous clans 
By lonely lakes to men unknown.’ 
Dwelling upon these sights, I am reminded that 
the seeing of spring come, not only upon the great 
wings of the geese and the lesser wings of the 
pigeons and birds, but in the many more subtle 
and indirect signs and mediums, is also a part of the 
compensation of living in the country. I enjoy not 
less what may be called the negative side of spring, 
— those dark, dank, dissolving days, yellow sposh 
and mud and water everywhere, — yet who can stay 
long indoors? The humidity is soft and satisfying 
to the smell, and to the face and hands, and, for 
the first time for months, there is the fresh odor of 
the earth. The air is full of the notes and calls 
of the first birds. The domestic fowls refuse their 
accustomed food and wander far from the barn. Is 
it something winter has left, or spring has dropped, 
that they pick up? And what is it that holds 
me so long standing in the yard or in the fields? 
Something besides the ice and snow melts and runs 
away with the spring floods. 
The little sparrows and purple finches are so 
punctual in announcing spring, that some seasons 
one wonders how they know without looking in the 
almanac, for surely there are no signs of spring out 
of doors. Yet they will strike up as cheerily amid 
the driving snow as if they had just been told that 
