April in Berkeley, 



streaks, which, together with an irregu- 

 lar black spot on the breast and a series 

 of white edgings on the tips of the 

 dark tail-feathers, make this otherwise 

 plain grayish brown and white bird very 

 easily recognized. 



There are to me none of the fond 

 associations of former days about the 

 lark-finch — none of the home ties to 

 warm the heart when it returns — but 

 when I hear the high, busy chatter of 

 the swallows, and see them wheeling in 

 clear-cut circles about the eaves where 

 of old they have nested, an untold flood 

 of memories and delights arises. Here 

 they are — the barn and the cliff swallows 

 — the same in this far land that a Wis- 

 consin childhood had made dear to me. 

 How swiftly and dexterously they cleave 

 the air with their long, sharp wings, 

 wheeling and eddying about, seemingly 

 in pure delight of the motion. I have 

 known estimable men and women in 

 this workaday world of ours who had 

 no clear conception of the difference 



158 



