132 IN SPRING. 



due east. There was one such at the close of 

 the first week in April, 1889. The air was exas- 

 peratingly chilly. Even the frogs in the marshes 

 were silent, and humanity was ill-natured and 

 despondent. While standing on the lee side of 

 an old oak I chanced upon a glorious weather- 

 cock one that would shame the despairing 

 thoughts of any reasonable man. That prince of 

 winter birds, a crested tit, sat long upon a leaf- 

 less twig facing the cruel east wind, sat there and 

 sang, clinging, as for dear life, to the swaying 

 branch, T' sweet here ! T* sweet here! the bur- 

 den of its song ; the ever- hopeful story of this 

 incomparable bird. What if the east wind did 

 blow? Was there not, here and there, a 

 trembling violet in the woods; a filmy veil of 

 white where the whitlow grasses bloomed; a 

 flashing of the maple's ruddy fire where the 

 fitful sunshine fell ? All these gave promise to 

 the brave-hearted bird, of spring as coming, if 

 not quite here. Let me take the hint. Give me 

 . just such a weathercock for each day of the year. 



