SPRING 87 



a baybreast sings, and lets me see him, a 

 bird I always love to look at, and a song that 

 I always have to learn anew, partly because 

 I hear it so seldom, partly because of its 

 want of individuality: a single hurried 

 phrase, pure z like the Blackburnian's, and 

 of the same wire-drawn tenuity. These 

 warblers are poor hands at warbling, but 

 they are musical to the eye. By this rule, 

 if throats were made to be looked at, and 

 judged by the feathers on them, the Black- 

 burnian might challenge comparison with 

 any singer under the sun. 



As the road ascends, the aspect of things 

 grows more and more springlike, or less 

 and less summerlike. Black-birch catkins 

 are just beginning to fall, and a little higher, 

 not far from the Bald Mountain path, I no- 

 tice a sugar maple still hanging full of pale 

 straw-colored tassels, encouraging signs to 

 a man who was becoming apprehensive lest 

 he had arrived too late. 



Then, as I pass the height of land and be- 

 gin the gentle descent into the Notch, front- 

 ing the white peak of Lafayette and the 

 black face of Eagle Cliff, I am aware of a 



