March in the Fine Woods, 



tain, tops that watched over them. The 

 willows by the stream had put forth 

 their downy catkins, and the hazel 

 bushes were hanging their pendulous 

 blooms beneath the pine trees. 



What days of joy are these, when 

 the tree-squirrels are barking and chuck- 

 ling over their love-making, when the 

 salmon are spawning in the mountain 

 brooks, and the birds are crowding 

 back to their old nesting places ! One 

 by one the spring flowers push their 

 tender green shoots through the wood- 

 land mold — the hound's-tongue with 

 its clusters of blue stars; the fair, pale, 

 dog-toothed violet, and the trilium. 

 The mountain-quail sounds its loud, 

 restless, whistling titter from the high- 

 lands, the valley-quail crows below it, 

 and away up among the pine trees a 

 grouse is booming its love call. 



To know these birds in the market, 

 hung up with limp bodies and ruffled 

 plumage, is a very different matter from 

 an acquaintance with them in their 



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