niuebitd 



Today, March 2 1 , is the first day of spring, and it's 

 bluebird weather. 



I see a pair of bluebirds flitting gracefully in the 

 open spaces around the old apple tree. Their blue is 

 as brilliant as the blue of a noonday sky, and on their 

 breasts is a splash of orange flame. I know that spring 

 has really come when these birds greet me with their 

 quiet, warbled song of tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly. 



Some years ago an industrious woodpecker hol- 

 lowed out a cavity in a dead limb of the old apple 

 tree. And every year since, a pair of bluebirds has 

 nested there. Once in this sheltered home, they per- 

 mit me glimpses of their happy family life. Bluebirds 

 are devoted parents, attentive to their offsprings' needs 

 and well-being. 



"At the end of winter, when the fields are bare, and 

 there is nothing to relieve the monotony of withered 

 vegetation, our life seems reduced to its lowest terms. 

 But let a bluebird come and warble, and what a 

 change. The note of the first bluebird in the air 

 answers to the purling rill of melted snow beneath. It 

 is evidently soft and soothing, and, as surely as the 

 thermometer, indicates a higher temperature. It is the 

 accent of the south wind." With those words Thoreau 

 described bluebird weather. I think about what he 

 said, and I look up at the bluebirds. "Tru-al-ly!" they 

 agree. "Tru-al-ly!" 



74 



