22 ROUND ABOUT CHICAGO 



any of the natives in the ravine bottoms. In 

 April they are still wintering in the city, and 

 when they do come they will stay on top, on 

 their verandas and lawns. If it is only city 

 tramps that care for the ravines, why impede us? 



Wherever there is a level spot we sit to rest and 

 to listen to the silence. Bird notes alone break 

 the stillness; a lilting chorus of yellow warblers, 

 the joyous spring whistle of the blue jay or the 

 hammer of a wood-pecker saying that life is astir 

 under the bark. There is life astir in the ground 

 as well. When the big boy in sheer joy of living 

 kicks up the earth, multitudes of wee six and 

 eight-footed folk run distractedly hither and 

 thither. 



The ravine is very steep now and brown with 

 a thick covering of dead leaves. Only the 

 patches of velvety green moss tell that it is not 

 winter still; for the trees have not yet declared 

 themselves, save some of the willows and an 

 occasional low red maple, whose glowing ruby 

 blossoms make the air about them redolent. 



The sun is riding high and sending his rays 

 down into the sheltered ravines with nearly his 

 summer ardor. The clatter of hoofs and wheels 

 on a bridge sounds almost over our heads, and 

 we know we are near the Sheridan Road. 



