but also sang of nest and — nestling. 

 Once again the song rang but it was for 

 one only and it floated out over the old 

 church burying ground and sight could 

 only reach the singer by a glistening path 

 of tears. I hurriedh' dressed. How I 

 longed for a tramp through the country. 

 I knew what I should find but the joy 

 was in the finding. The maple wands by 

 the river side were bursting into distant 

 flame. The willows were unfolding their 

 fluffy catkins. Now the tree sparrow had 

 a song. The chicadee was piping that 

 sweet call with which we are familiar in 

 spring but the humble source of which 

 we rarely dream. Meadow larks fresh 

 from the south were flitting across their 

 old haunts chary as yet of their varied 

 calls. In the river thickets the cardinal 

 is whistling. I hear the plash of the 

 first turtle. Greenwing and bluewing, 

 mallard and red-head and canvasback, 

 blackjack an-d sprig are on the streams 

 and in the lakes. A high hawk, per- 

 haps, adds dignity to the idyll. But the 

 town has its suggestions of spring. My 

 transplanted hepatica is unfolding white 

 and downy curls, each floweret cased in 

 its separate sheath of leaves. Crocuses 

 are in hud. A solitary snowdrop in its 

 modesty has almost escaped us. It is in 

 bloom, the year's first flower. Bluebirds 

 are twittering overhead. The air is de- 

 licious. The thermometer registers six- 

 ty-eight. There is the Chaucerian smell 

 of earth and sun, the aroma of early bon- 

 fires. Yes, and here in this cedar are 

 half a dozen golden-crowned kinglets. 

 May we not hope to surprise other mi- 

 grants, to hear perhaps the flicker's 

 merry chuckle, to flush the solitary bit- 

 tern from ills swamp, to get a glimpse of 

 that other ship of state the big blue 

 heron as he sails through space on his 

 passage north, to feast our eyes possi- 

 bly on the flaming redbud lowlands of 

 some forest solitude? Work keeps me 

 in all day but I have arranged for tomor- 

 row. I sliall take m\- gun and note book. 

 I may get some ducks. I shall woo the 

 spring. The Greek myth will be mine. 

 I know the trysts. The evening is a 

 noble sequel to the day. Windows are 

 open. I hear the passing of a migrant 

 or two overhead. The wind is south. 

 A cloud and distant thunder from the 

 same quarter mar the glories of a full 



moon. At eight my writing is inter- 

 rupted by the honk of geese. My pulse 

 thrills a little in anticipation. A full bag 

 is only second to a full note book. From 

 eight to nine I count sixteen of these 

 honking flocks. The arc lights of the 

 little town seem to attract them. Scat- 

 tering shots mingle with the thunder. 

 At nine a gentle rain begins to fall. The 

 bottom lands a half mile distant are dis- 

 cordant with wild fowl. Tlie flight of 

 noisy flocks is now incessant until eleven 

 when I retire. As I lie in bed I hear 

 more and more dreamily the deep nasal 

 quonk of the big ducks, the monosyllabic 

 whistle of the teal, the weird, uncanny 

 honk of the brant and the Canada goose. 

 The patter of the gusty rain makes me 

 sleepy. My last memory of the night 

 is of an impudent squad of ducks that 

 seem to fly just past my window. They 

 were quacking vociferously and were 

 trailed apparently by an unfortunate or 

 laggard whose dissatisfaction at the 

 swift gait of his companions was ex- 

 pressed yet more noisily in hurried, in- 

 termittent grunts. I vaguely wondered 

 how these birds timed their migration. 

 They all came from the north. How did 

 they all slip past on their first trip un- 

 noticed? At any rate the}' were in con- 

 sonance with my sign. I had waked to 

 the robin's song. I fell asleep to the mu- 

 sic of rain and the clamor of wild fowl. 



Again my sleep was broken and rest- 

 less. Dreams were many and varied. 

 At length the morning dawned. Some- 

 thing was wrong. Where was the robin ? 

 The wind was north. The ground was 

 white. Snow was already six inches deep. 

 The blizzard of the year was on. For 

 three days it raged. The wind main- 

 tained a howling velocity. Drifts grew 

 to the depth of six, eight and even ten 

 feet. Two other storms little less severe 

 followed within the month. March com- 

 prehended winter. Some mathematical 

 croaker claimed that the month regis- 

 tered but three sunny days. One of 

 these evidently I shared with the robin 

 and with spring. Aristotle was right of 

 course and this is my last efifusion on 

 the robin's song. "Not one swallow 

 makes a summer" — nor the best of signs 

 a spring. 



J. V.\LL.\NCE Brown. 



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