66 BRIGHT FEATHERS. 
form of our welcome guest may be seen surveying his natural surround- 
ings with a curious and searching eye. ‘ 
He comes to us as the breeze bids him. His advent has been 
heralded by his well trained tongue in the meridian of a spring time 
day, often before his graceful form has been noted. In the gray dawn 
of an awakening sun, his cheerful tune has caught the ear for the first 
time in the budding period, and, alas! he has startled us with his crisp 
reveille while we were hugging a wooing pillow and knew not whether 
of the twain we had dreamed or actually heard his good morrow. 
We involuntarily touch our visor to the Summer Warbler, the red- 
dish spots upon his golden livery suggestive of the chevrons they faintly 
outline, as the trim sergeant of a squad of days that come trooping on, 
full of promise of the sun, of blossoms, and of the droning chorus of 
insects. With his advent, the days are marshaled which steep the 
senses in a languid, feverish unrest, and incite the gypsy strain which 
tincts the blood of our primitive natures to its assertion. The days 
have come, in which we eye our gun askance, when we assort and 
arrange our flys, our snells, leaders, hooks and lines, and joint our rod 
to test its supple strength as we yearn for the greenwood and the brawl- 
ing brooks. Days, when the earth emits a life-giving odor, and its 
garniture of innocent violets yields up their fragrance as incense to the 
pregnant goddess of the seasons. Days, when the sky seems of opal, 
and the clouds of pearl, the light of gold, and the rain-drops of silver. 
Days, when the ardent and long forgotten loves of our boyhood assert 
their empire, and we dreamily wonder if the locks and lashes we so 
madly adored, slumber in the dust or sweep over joys maternal. Days, 
with which the Summer Warbler comes, and in whose voluptuous 
zephyrs the very shrubs upon the lawn and the “ pussy willows,” beside 
. _ 
ee ee «ie Sema od OS 
~ «eres 
