Birds from a Suburban Window 



that my note-book begins to show many 

 entries devoted to my feathered neighbors. 

 But some morning in March, just after a 

 sugar-snow, perhaps, I wake with a thrill 

 of boyish delight, to hear the sweet, brave, 

 joyish cadenza of the song-sparrow, rising 

 from the buttonwood thicket on the other 

 side of the swamp. I get my field-glass 

 and search eagerly for the little singer. Ah, 

 there he is, a little grayish brown patch 

 among the whitened twigs. How he pours 

 out his jubilant soul, in tones as clear and 

 ringing as those of some elfin violinist! 

 One of the first comers of the bird-choir, 

 in this section, his cheery song marks, for 

 me, the real beginning of the bird-year, and 

 fills me with that ever-fresh, keen, almost 

 poignant longing, that comes to every na 

 ture-lover in the spring. 



From that time on, my patch of wild- 

 wood begins to be a veritable bower of 

 song. Every morning announces some new 

 arrival, and there is a vivacious musical 

 hubbub under my window, that reminds me 

 of the reopening of a girls' school after 

 the long vacation. Comes robin; comes 

 scarlet-epauletted blackbird, choking with 



75 



