4 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 



ing, and no thrush or vireo is to be heard ; we go out 

 again, and every tree and grove is musical ; yet again, 

 and all is silent. Who saw them come ? Who saw 

 them depart? 



This pert little winter-wren, for instance, darting in 

 and out the fence, diving under the rubbish here and 

 coming up yards away, — how does he manage with 

 those little circular wings to compass degrees and zones, 

 and arrive always in the nick of time ? Last August I 

 saw him in the remotest wilds of the Adirondacs, im- 

 patient and inquisitive as usual ; a few weeks later, on 

 the Potomac, I was greeted by the same hardy little 

 busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush 

 to bush and from wood to wood ? or has that com- 

 pact little body force and courage to brave the night 

 and the upper air, and so achieve leagues at one pull ? 



And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his 

 breast and the sky tinge on his back, — did he come 

 down out of heaven on that bright March morning 

 when he told us so softly and plaintively that if we 

 pleased, spring had come ? Indeed, there is nothing in 

 the return of the birds more curious and suggestive 

 than in the first appearance, or rumors of the appear- 

 ance, of this little blue-coat. The bird at first seems a 

 mere wandering voice in the air ; one hears its call or 

 carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertain 

 of its source or direction ; it falls like a drop of rain 

 when no cloud is visible ; one looks and listens, but to 

 no purpose. The weather changes, perhaps a cold 



