Where Town and Country Meet 



is still gratefully fresh in the minds of 

 many of us, no doubt particularly the 

 golfers, who were out in force, like re- 

 prieved prisoners, tramping the snowless 

 turf of the links. On the i/th, with the 

 thermometer in the 50*3, I took a long walk, 

 out through Wollaston, toward the Milton 

 Hills. The warmth of the sun and the soft- 

 ness of the air were simply delicious, and I 

 could not help pitying all those who were 

 shut up, on so fine a day, in offices, stores, 

 and factories. 



On the edge of the swamp lying just 

 west of Wollaston Heights, I startled a 

 small flock of blue jays, three or four, that 

 went screaming away into the depths of 

 the woods. Unless disturbed, the bluejay 

 is usually silent at this season of the year, 

 his loud, metallic cry being seldom heard 

 later than the 1st of December. The flicker, 

 however, whose voice I presently heard 

 from a distant pine-tree, is a spring prophet, 

 and in pleasant weather may be heard blow- 

 ing his bugle over the winter woods, like 

 a clarion call to the sun. His note at this 

 season is single, strong, and resonant, with 

 a reedy quality, something like the tone of 



