AS THE YEAR GROWS 57 



on the still naked limb of a Horse-chestnut, Another 

 pair chose the matted Vines around a bay window. 

 The Yellow Warbler is already calling from the tree- 

 tops, where there is not sufficient yellow-green 

 foliage to afford his usual concealment. But out in 

 the suburban woods the birds have brought the 

 summer with them. Meadow Larks sail over the fields 

 with pendent, tremulous wings, or stand erect on 

 the rising ground, displaying the black crescents on 

 their yellow breasts* Woodpeckers sound their loud 

 alarm, each in his own peculiar way. Thrushes flit 

 silently among the lower branches. The Sparrows, 

 that suffer through the reputation of their English 

 cousin, have come back. The Bluebird is already 

 familiar. And the Brown Thrasher, the most inspir- 

 ing singer of the woods, is here, proclaiming in 

 melody the renewal of nature's perpetual youth. 

 The boy's description of " a long-tailed, light brown 

 Robin flying low through the bushes " fits him well. 

 But when the inspiration of song takes hold of him 

 he abandons his lowly habits and mounts the highest 

 branch of some convenient tree, pointing his bill to 

 the sky, showing in careless abandon the spotted 

 markings on his white breast, and offering up the 

 joyful spirit of the season n rich, varied, spontaneous 

 melody. The ecstasy of his song is irresistible. 

 However familiar, it is always new. Sometimes 

 he closes his bill, swells his throat, and exhales a 



