WHEN SPRING COMES. 



(IN INDIANA.) 



"The time of the singing of birds has 

 come," said a great singer years ago. 



"Tjhe time of the singing of birds has 

 come,'" whispers the south wind as he 

 unbars the rivers and streams. 



In this latitude of 40 degrees north, ar- 

 riving as they do just as the snow melts 

 and ice breaks up, when the first warm 

 days are here, our song birds are pecu- 

 liarly welcome. Birds of winter are very 

 interesting, and I have no better friends 

 than they are, but their songs are mostly 

 reduced to call notes and they are too 

 busy with the question of a living to in- 

 dulge in the complex life of spring and 

 summer. 



When the weather has been cold for 

 weeks, pond and brook ice botmd, snow 

 deep in the woods or piled in great drifts 

 along the fences, it gives a feeling of 

 renewed life to see the ground appear 

 once more and the streams rippling with 

 water. Then the blood flows freer and the 

 heart beats more quickly, in tune with 

 the pulsating life. Then the eye scans 

 the surroundings and the ear listens in- 

 tently for the songs of spring. 



Generally the first bird to appear is the 

 bluebird. The last few days of Febru- 

 ary will probably be the time of his ar- 

 rival or if the winter be late, the fore- 

 most days of March. The first intima- 

 tion will probably be a sweet song in the 

 air "cherut," "cherut," or maybe you 

 will catch sight of a blue backed, most 

 intensely blue, cinnamon -breasted bird 

 perched on the fence. He is not timid, 

 though the earliest arrivals will be shy 

 at first. But watch and they will soon 

 be frequent visitors about the house and 

 yard. This applies to a certain extent 

 to the houses of towns and villages and 

 the suburbs of cities. The sweet singer 

 has only a few notes, but these make in 

 quality what they lack in variations. 



The meadow lark comes about this 

 time and, true to his name, generally fre- 

 quents the meadows and pastures. His 



coat is the same color as the dead stub- 

 ble, and it takes a keen eye to discern the 

 author of that beautiful song. But stroll 

 that way and at the quick whirr of wings 

 notice the grayish back, widespread tail 

 with white quill feathers and if he wheel 

 about, the beautiful yellow breast with 

 black crescent. A bird of the meadows, 

 he certainly is, for there he builds his 

 nest and there he passes his life. 



Maybe on the very same day the blue- 

 bird came, robin red-breaSt appears, 

 plump and dignified, ready to dispute 

 with any of these plebeian sparrows for 

 the right of a home in the piazza or in 

 the apple tree on the lawn. Though 

 others of his family may prefer the 

 "sweet seclusion of the woods," Mr. 

 Robin prefers to rear his family right 

 in the confines of civilization. To his 

 mind there is less danger from cats and 

 small boys than from hawks and squir- 

 rels. 



February seldom draws to a close with- 

 out the presence of the purple-grackles. 

 Whatever other failings blackbirds may 

 have, you can always see and hear them. 

 Right into your shade or apple trees they 

 come, making a great racket, that, as Mr. 

 Burroughs says, is like "pepper and salt 

 to the ear." Few birds have a more strik- 

 ing plumage than the crow blackbird. 

 Watch one of them strutting about some 

 fine April morning. The name blackbird 

 is not descriptive. He is purple, bronze 

 and violet, and the sun's rays falling 

 on his feathers give a most striking ef- 

 fect. These four birds generally come 

 in February in this latitude, though the 

 state of the weather may retard them 

 some. This year I saw the bluebirds and 

 blackbirds in February, but the other two 

 did not come until March. 



Qosely followmg these comes the 

 song sparrow. He looks much like the 

 other sparrows, excerpt he has a dark spot 

 on the breast with lines converging to- 

 wards it. By nature fitted for a life in 



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