APRIL DAYS 



The woodchuck and chipmunk have 

 got on top of the world again. You 

 hear the half querulous, half chuckling 

 whistle of the one, the full-mouthed per- 

 sistent cluck of the other, voicing recog- 

 nition of the season. 



The song of the brooks has abated 

 something of its first triumphant swell, 

 and is often overborne now by the jubi- 

 lant chorus of the birds, the jangled, 

 liquid gurgle and raucous grating of the 

 blackbirds, the robin's joyous song with 

 its frequent breaks, as if the thronging 

 notes outran utterance, the too brief 

 sweetness of the meadowlark's whistle, 

 the bluebird's carol, the cheery call of 

 the phoebe, the trill of the song sparrow, 

 and above them all the triumph of the 

 hawk in its regained possessions of north- 

 ern sky and earth. 



The woods throb with the muffled 

 beat of the partridge's drum and the 

 sharp tattoo of the woodpecker, and are 

 filled again with the sounds of insect 

 life, the spasmodic hum of flies, the 

 droning monotone of bees busy among 

 the catkins and squirrelcups, and you 

 may see a butterfly, wavering among the 

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