SPRING 87 



a baybreast sings, and lets me see him, — a 

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

 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 Cliif , I am aware of a 



