MARCH 



13 



The water on the meadow this still bright morn- 

 ing is smooth as in April. I am surprised to hear 

 the strain of a song sparrow from the river-side, 

 and as I cross from the causeway to the hill, think- 

 ing of the bluebird, I that instant hear one's note 

 from deep in the softened air. It is already 40. 

 By noon it is between 50 and 60. As the day 

 advances I hear more bluebirds, and see their azure 

 flakes settling on the fenceposts. Their short rich 

 warble curls through the air. Its grain now lies 

 parallel to the bluebird's warble, like boards of the 

 same lot. 



THOREAU: Early Spring in Massachusetts. 



14 



Above, the hen-hawk swims and swoops, 

 Flung from the bright, blue sky ; 



Below, the robin hops, and whoops 

 His piercing Indian cry. 



HOLMES: After a Lecture on Wordsworth. 



The sun and the south wind, which perhaps 

 bears some faint breath of stolen fragrance from 

 far-off violet banks, tempt forth the bees, but they 

 find no flowers yet, not even a squirrelcup or wil- 

 low catkin, and can only make the most of the 

 fresh sawdust by the wood-pile and the sappy ends 

 of maple logs. 



ROBINSON: In New England Fields and Woods. 



