ACCORDING TO SEASON 



The robin is not a rarity, but his advent makes 

 the old man young again ; for the moment it 

 turns the dullard into a poet. 



It may be some weeks before we hear the song 



Song of of the robin, but this year I heard it during the 

 latter half of March, within a few days of its 

 first appearance. Its early morning call greeted 

 my ears before I was fairly awake, and late in 

 the afternoon, in heavy rain as well as in clear 

 weather, the serene, melodious strain came to me 

 from the tree-tops. It is a simple song but it is a 

 beautiful one, speaking of faith and hope. There 

 is an element of sadness about it which may be 

 lent by the listener, I hardly know. But I do 

 know that in all nature there is no sound which 

 so swiftly takes one back to the happy, hopeful 

 days of early life. 



The bluebird, as compared with the robin, is a 

 rarity in my neighborhood. It arrives usually a 



The blue- little later, and, though I have been on the watch 

 for days, its blue, wavering flight and elusive song 

 have always the effect of unexpectedness. It dis- 

 appears as suddenly as it comes. Almost before I 

 am sure it is here, out of sight it flashes. Till I 

 have seen it for the second or third time I cannot 

 be comfortably confident that the sudden vision is 

 more than a dream. In my experience it lacks 

 the aggressiveness and persistence which keep the 



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bird 



