perhaps for months before. Snowdrops 

 and crocus disdain the turn of the year 

 to shiver in the snow. Their debit evi- 

 dently runs : "To Spring so much" — 

 and it is little enough — "caloric received." 

 Their standard of measure is the ther- 

 mometer ; their unit, a few notches above 

 winter warmth. The horned lark I have 

 found over four eggs in her ground nest 

 on the seventeenth of March, when ten 

 above zero was the highest register of 

 heat throughout the day. I have heard 

 the meadow larks flute their sweetest, 

 fullest calls over an unbroken sheet of 

 winter white. Our other gay deceivers 

 of the spring we cannot even catalogue. 

 The snapping cones and the sugar snow ; 

 the clamoring crane, the noisy kildeer, the 

 game fowl — alike the "honkers" and the 

 "quackers" and the whistling teal or 

 snipe; the various docks, the shepherd's 

 purse, the willow catkins, the alder pen- 

 dants, and the dancing Easter sun ; the 

 peeping hylas, the hoarser frogs, the 

 chilled or drunken but cheery bees, and 

 the mourning dove; the trailing arbutus, 

 spring beatity, blood root, dutchman's 

 breeches, the anemones. And so forth 

 must include the many, the signs scien- 

 tific, the signs superstitious, the signs 

 jocose the remainder of the signs aes- 

 thetic and popularly prognostic. 



Shall we then despair, cease to be sym- 

 bol worshipers, say there is no single 

 certain signal of the season's advent? 

 Must Aristotle's proverb be our simple 

 creed or rather discreed, that not one 

 swallow makes a summer? Was the 

 Greek idea correct that the genius of 

 spring was Persephone, a goddess, a 

 maiden, the gender feminine, and as such 

 was she to be undated in her coming, a 

 sweet-heart to be loved, but never won, 

 the representative of a religion for wor- 

 ship but not for realization? Are the 

 seasons like the perfect life, a growth, a 

 process, a state unmarked, perhaps, by 

 definitely characteristic and transitional 

 acts? Must we leave tinanswered when 

 I reached manhood, when you fell in love, 

 when he became converted? Can we only 

 say : "It matters not. The fact remains. 

 She comes — I know not when?" There 

 is an alternative. We may disregard the 

 popular signs. With human conceit we 

 may ignore the declaration of authori- 

 ties. We may set up our own pet sign. 



Do we not at any rate? And so I said 

 that spring had come. I was satisfied 

 with my witness. After failures untold 

 I had found a sure thing. It had met the 

 test for a decade. It was familiar, na- 

 tional in its familiarity and — if you will 

 admit it — unfailing. It was a song and 

 not a presence merely. It expressed a 

 mood, a mood of ecstasy, the ecstasy of 

 spring. It was the robin's song. 



Too early my prophet often came. I 

 like him for it. Too early he never sang 

 — in that decade. Some of his many calls 

 he sadly voiced over a white earth, but 

 not his full, heartfelt rhapsody to spring. 

 That paean there was no mistaking. He 

 was wiser than the meadow lark. His 

 message meant to my interpretation : No 

 snow, no more snow, but showers and 

 sun and apple blossoms, nest and fruit. 

 Other indications I noted but for this I 

 waited. It was my favorite ode to 

 spring, a lover's sonnet, a marriage 

 hymn. In summer it was reminiscent, 

 heard only after rain and then it passed 

 like the passing of Arthur until "the new 

 sun rose bringing the new year." 



In the tenth year of my sign toward 

 the dawning of the eleventh my sleep was 

 broken — an unusual occurrence. It was 

 the robin's song. Half awake, I felt my 

 face relax. For the first time I realized 

 that it was firm with the iron of years. I 

 murmured a prayer of thanks. Spring 

 and all it typified of life and health and 

 love and hope as yet remained. It was 

 the light of a new day, a new year, a 

 new decade, a new century even. It 

 was again "land after sea," the winning 

 of a wish, a prayer, a boon. What might 

 it not presage? Might not I too some- 

 time awaken to the larger morning, the 

 spring perennial, with something of the 

 robin's ecstasy of song? I have heard 

 the woodthrush in a midsummer forest 

 solitude at late twilight ; in a_ strange 

 land at midnight I have thrilled to the 

 nightingale's lament ; but the robin's 

 song meant more to me. It always 

 brought me nearer tears. What memor- 

 ies it recalled ! A happy boy in the old 

 home crept barefoot at dawn under the 

 cherry tree to listen open mouthed. Lat- 

 er the robin sang to lovers. Again from 

 the same tree he sang for two who lis- 

 tened arm in arm with parted lips and 

 dimming eyes ; for he sang still of love 



ns 



