FIRST WEEK] March 67 



the steamer bears down upon one, the bird half spreads 

 its wings, then closes them quickly, and sinks out of 

 sight in the green depths, not to reappear until the 

 steamer has passed, when he looks after us and utters 

 his mocking laugh. Here he will float until the time 

 comes for him to go north. We love the brave fellow, 

 remembering him in his home among the lakes of 

 Canada; but we tremble for him when we think of the 

 terrible storm waves which he must outride, and the 

 sneering sharks which must sometimes spy him. What 

 a story he could tell of his life among the phalaropes 

 and jelly-fishes! 



Meadow larks are in flocks in March, and as their 

 yellow breasts, with the central crescent of black, rise 

 from the snow-bent grass, their long, clear, vocal " arrow " 

 comes to us, piercing the air like a veritable icicle of sound. 

 When on the ground they are walkers like the crow. 



As the kingfisher and loon appear to know long ahead 

 when the first bit of clear water will appear, so the first 

 insect on the wing seems to be anticipated by a feathered 

 flycatcher. Early some morning, when the wondrous 

 Northern Lights are still playing across the heavens, a 

 small voice may make all the surroundings seem incon- 

 gruous. Frosty air, rimmed tree-trunks, naked branches, 

 aurora all seem as unreal as stage properties, when 

 phce-be ! comes to our ears. Yes there is the little dark- 

 feathered, tail-wagging fellow, hungry no doubt, but sure 

 that when the sun warms up, Mother Nature will strew 

 his aerial breakfast-table with tiny gnats, precocious, 

 but none the less toothsome for all that. 



