26 BRIGHT FEATHERS. 
Sauntering through South Street in the forenoon of the day men- 
tioned, I noted the evidences about me of the advent of the season. The 
swelling embryos of silent life seemed ready to burst into being at any 
moment, having only to await the vivifying touch of an invisible finger 
more cunning and curious in its ways than that of any mechanical artifi- 
cer. The boughs of the graceful elms, laden with their tiny plumes, 
seemed to nod me a good morrow as I passed, and upon the fences, 
coming from whence I know not, the spiders were seen sunning their 
sprawling forms. The tender blades of golden hued grasses were gen- 
tly crowding aside the dead leaves of the preceding autumn, like true 
lollards of a murmuring hour. Spring had cast her hazy banner athwart 
a cloudless sky, while up from the South came a warm breath, laden 
with langour and laziness, which found voice enough to murmur, “ The 
Birds are Coming! The Birds are Coming!” Over the distant lake 
there seemed to rest an undefined, but nevertheless distinguishable hu- 
midity that seemed only too willing to lend its vivifying influence to the 
scene, and turned and swayed in the atmospheric haze like a true toiler 
in the performance of an allotted task. 
Suddenly, and without warning, there burst upon my ears a note, 
clear, incisive and well defined, full of nuptial pride and melody, each 
repetition sweeter and more thrilling than its precursor, which I recog- 
nized at once as emanating from no other source than the throat 
of the Rose-Breasted Grosbeak. It was no difficult task for me to 
quickly discover and identify the minstrels of this pleasing lay, for, rol- 
licking in almost every variety of attitude amid the twigs of a stately 
elm, my eyes were gladdened by the sight of three males of the species, 
whose cenobic garb and rosy shield displayed in full perfection, and pro- 
: 
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