AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



105 



SPRING DAYS. 



By Frank H. Sweet. 



S we cross the meadow in the sunshine, our feet sinking 

 deep in the young grass and soft, wet mould, the birds 

 are fluttering and singing everywhere above and around 

 us. " So glad, so glad ! So warm, so warm ! Home 

 again! Sweet, sweet, sweet!" They carol with an in- 

 finite gayety and lightsomeness and the heart-throb of 

 spring in their voices. 



Here and there through the greenish brown of the 

 pushing grass, gleams out the honest face of the dan- 

 delion, each one " striving to incorporate the whole 

 great sun it loves from the inch height whence it looks 

 and longs." And here, too, are the first violets, pale 

 blue in the sun, dark in the shade, unspeakably delicate 

 and delicious. 



As we bend over them, doubtful whether to gather 

 or to leave them to their delicious wildness, we see a robin with sleek, 

 black head, waistcoat of the choicest season's red and a coat of dusky 

 gray, intent on pulling a worm out of the ground. He bends himself 

 back and tugs intermittently, while the worm visibly elongates, but 

 still resists. Robin stops to take breath as we watch, and then with 

 one supreme and final tug draws out his prey, limp and flaccid, and lays 

 it on the grass with the air of a conqueror. 



Ah, here is a by-path, evidently made by cows, and leading toward 

 the woods. Involuntarily our feet stray into it. Listen to the full, 

 happy gurgle of the brook as it crosses the path, under the bark worn 

 log which serves as a foot bridge. If it be that the highest point of 

 power and usefulness is a reason for joy, then spring is the carnival 

 time for running waters. How this small stream bustles along, frets 

 at fallen branches that impede its progress, and protests to the green 

 things that fringe its banks. "No, you mustn't hinder me now. This 

 is no time for idle conversation. I have an engagement in the mead- 

 ows. How could I ever accomplish anything if I stopped to talk with 

 every light minded leaf in the forest?" 



Now comes the fragrance of the pines at last, an aromatic breath 

 more pungent than flowers, purer than incense, sweeter than the "nard 

 i' the fire." Under the shade of the straight, dark boughs, gleam the 

 white stars of the hepatica, each shining whorl set about with pendu- 

 lous, close folded buds, of palest rose. There are silvery, greenish- 

 gray ferns here, shooting vigorously up from the dark earth and be- 



