PEVCAR DEAN 
*T is always morning somewhere, 
And above the awakening continents from shore to shore 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 
LoNGFELLOW. 
ARLY in March, soon after the arrival 
of the three meadow larks, a flock of 
jolly rollicking red-winged blackbirds took 
possession of the woods along the marshy 
field. Careless of wind and weather, they 
piped their gay “ Konkaree” on bright and 
gray days, insisting, in spite of the snow, that 
“Spring is here.” Evidently the calendar, 
not the weather man, makes the blackbirds’ 
Springtime. When the icy winds blew and 
the sleet covered all the trees, I wondered 
where they were, and whether cold and 
hunger would drive them southward again. 
But with the first sunshine out they came 
as merry as ever. I do not know how it 
may be ordinarily, but this flock evidently 
42 
