SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 141 



unreclaimed common near by came the first strain of 

 the song-sparrow ; so homely, because so old and 

 familiar, yet so inexpressibly pleasing. Presently a 

 full chorus of voices arose ; tender, musical, half sup- 

 pressed, but full of genuine hilarity and joy. The 

 bluebird warbled, the robin called, the snow-bird 

 chattered, the meadow-lark uttered her strong, but 

 tender note. Over a deserted field a turkey-buzzard 

 hovered low, and alighted on a stake in the fence, 

 standing a moment with outstretched, vibrating wings, 

 till he was sure of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding 

 day. Roads becoming dry in many places, and look- 

 ing so good after the mud and the snow. I walk up 

 beyond the boundary and over Meridian Hill. To 

 move along the drying road and feel the delicious 

 warmth is enough. The cattle low long and loud, and 

 look wistfully into the distance. I sympathize with 

 them. Never a spring comes, but I have an almost 

 irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadic or migra- 

 ting instinct or reminiscence stirs within me. I ache 

 to be off. 



As I pass along, the high-hole calls in the distance 

 precisely as I have heard him in the North. After a 

 pause he repeats his summons. What can be more 

 welcome to the ear than these early first sounds ! 

 They have such a margin of silence ! 



One need but pass the boundary of Washington City 

 to be fairly in the country, and ten minutes' walk in 

 the country brings one to real primitive woods. The 



