The Birds and Poets 41 



and then off they would go on another helter- 

 skelter through the naked branches, and back 

 again to the favorite poplar. While watching the 

 play of the sapsuckers, a myrtle warbler flew into 

 the poplar and exhibited his conspicuous yellow 

 rump, which makes his identification so easy. Just 

 as I was saying a reluctant farewell to my feathered 

 friends, a troup of five or six trim cedar-birds 

 flew into the tops of the trees bordering the woods, 

 coming from the direction of the village, and, after 

 pausing long enough to bid me "good morning," 

 continued their journey on into the woods. 



This was by no means an unusual or exceptional 

 April morning for the bird lover. Indeed, the 

 number and variety of birds seen was insignificant 

 as compared with what might be observed upon a 

 longer trip, or one taken later in the migrating 

 season. 



Yet when thirty minutes, by the way, will yield 

 so much of enjoyment and inspiration, why do 

 we not more often make these little saunterings a 

 part of our work-a-day lives, to cheer and brighten 

 them, thenceforth and forever? 



I always regret the departure of April, but 

 she ushers in flowery May, thus reminding us 

 of the beautiful lines of Oliver Wendell Holmes: 



"At last young April, ever frail and fair, 

 Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, 

 Chased to the margin of receding floods 

 O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, 

 In tears and blushes sighs herself away, 

 And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May." 



