THE YELLOW VALLEY 47 



swish of the long dry grasses, which can be 

 heard only if one sits down in their midst, 

 very still; the light, purling sounds of the 

 river; the soft gush of water about some bend 

 ing branch as its tip catches and drags in the 

 shifting current. The winds lose a little of 

 their fierceness as they drop into the valley, 

 and they seem to have left behind them all 

 the sounds of the outer world which they usu 

 ally bear. If now and then they waft hither- 

 ward the long call of a locomotive, they soften 

 it till it is only a dreamy reminder. 



It is strange that in a spot so specially full 

 of the tokens of last year s life, the dry 

 grasses, the old oak leaves not yet pushed off 

 by the new buds, where the only green is 

 of the hemlocks and laurels that have weath 

 ered the winter, it is strange that in such 

 a spot one should feel the immanence of 

 spring. Perhaps it is the bluebird that does it. 

 For it is the bluebird s valley as well as mine. 

 There are other birds there, but not many, 

 and it is the bluebird which best voices the 

 spirit of the place. Most birds in the spring 

 imply an audience. The song sparrow, with 

 the lift and the lilt of his song, sings to the 



