THE RENAISSANCE. 



THE twenty-fifth of March was the first 

 day of the year which could, without any 

 mental reservation, be called a spring day. 

 I was awakened early by the clamor of 

 English sparrows, the shrill calling of robins, 

 the "creaking" of purple grackles, and the 

 cawing of crows. By eight o'clock, with one 

 who, like myself, had arranged to gauge the 

 season on this bright and beautiful morning, I 

 was on my way behind a willing horse, speeding 

 by Mount Auburn, through the walled fields of 

 Belmont, past Waverley Oaks, and on towards 

 Concord, with Rock Meadow and Beaver Brook 

 on the left, and Arlington Heights and their 

 cedar-crowned ridges on the right. Every 

 breath of fresh, sweet, sparkling air seemed full 

 of new, tingling life. Near Payson Park Lodge 

 a song sparrow was singing. We stopped and 

 listened to it. Every note was well and fully 

 rendered. The bird was, like the day, one of 

 Nature's successes. Just beyond the Oaks, near 

 Beaver Brook Cascade, a flock of a dozen quail 

 flew over us, and on, northward, at a rate of 



