80 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



uncertain. At the masthead of a leafless red 

 maple sat a gray squirrel, " budding." Foolish 

 thing, he sat still, thinking himself safe, while 

 he was really the most conspicuous object in the 

 ravine. Pounding upon the tree had no effect 

 on him. Search for hepaticas revealed no 

 flowers, and I did not find any until a trip to 

 the Middlesex Fells on April 5th. The skunk- 

 cabbage flowers were losing their beauty, yet the 

 snow was still abundant in dark corners in the 

 woods. Ten minutes in the chilly ravine was 

 enough. A grouse startled me with her noisy 

 flight as I left the gloom. From every hilltop 

 crows were calling lustily. They were restless, 

 and seemed moved by a common impulse. 

 Reaching a high ledge, I watched them. About 

 thirty were in sight in the tops of tall pines. 

 Gradually they drew together on the next ridge 

 to the north, about half a mile from me. One 

 by one they dropped down into the woods out 

 of sight. At last but two remained, still cawing. 

 Then they became silent, and finally they also 

 sank beneath the surface of the woods, and 

 nothing more was heard of them. They were 

 like sparks in the ashes, going out one by one. 

 At this moment the sun, which had been sinking 

 behind stormy-looking rags of clouds, disap- 

 peared behind the rounded shoulder of Wachu- 

 sett. Then the sky dressed itself in gay colors, 



