FROM AN ORNITHOLOGIST'S YEAR BOOK. 



FLUTE OF ARCADY. 



In Ohio are many wide, grassy fields, 

 covering the rounded hillslopes or fiUing 

 open valleys. One day in March the 

 world was white with snow, and I heard, 

 as if in a dream, the soft cooing of the 

 doves. Never before had I heard it ex- 

 cept on sunny afternoons in pine woods, 

 rich with warm, resinous odors. It is 

 hardly a sound — rather silence percepti- 

 ble, blending so perfectly with the sun- 

 shine, the hushed and brooding stillness 

 of the air, the half-conscious sense of life, 

 that I would often hear it a long while 

 without knowing that I listened — the soft, 

 tremulous cooing of the wood-doves, yet 

 here the earth was white with snow and 

 the air chill. 



But the doves were right. Spring was 

 near, and in a little while the feathery 

 grass was nodding in the warm wind, 

 gray and hazy, as the great white clouds 

 swept overhead with wing-like shadows, 

 or shining, each tiny blade like burnished 

 steel, in the sunlight. The cooing of the 

 doves had been only a low prelude ; now 

 the air was ringing with melody. 

 " N'er a leaf was dumb; 

 Around us all the thickets rung 

 To many a flute of Arcady. " 



"The fresh, glad songs of the western 

 meadow larks ! Everywhere, every- 

 where, the air was vibrant with the poig- 

 nant sweetness of their silvery voices ;. 

 everywhere you might see the shining 

 yellow of their breasts as they rose with 

 strong wing ; everywhere you might per- 

 haps chance to stumble upon some nest 

 of woven grasses. Often with arched 

 covering, on the very ground, with the 

 dear little brownish mother bending over- 

 four or six white eggs, freckled with 

 cinnamon spots. It is the season of the 

 larks, and earth and sky are more lovely 

 for the magic of their singing. One 

 hardly knows how to describe it in words. 

 Spring o' the year ! Spring o' the year I 

 it seems to say to the listener, both in 

 the east and west, but the song of the 

 western meadow lark has a richer mel- 

 ody, a more piercing delight. It seems 

 to talk of forgotten things ; of youth and 

 first hopes ; first love ; it has all the glam- 

 our of the far-away, and yet a sweetness 

 of the near. It rises from the thick grass 

 at your feet, yet it mounts towards the 

 blue sky ! It is a veritable Flute of Ar- 

 cady blown with a breath of joy. 



Ella F. Mosby. 



The dogwood blossoms white as snow 

 Their favors now to rambler show, 

 And where the Winter's latest drift 

 Through the dark moss did silent sift, 

 All blossomed-starred, above the ground 

 The shy arbutus now is found. 



The cloud-capped mountains all appear 

 With verdant slopes and summits clear; 

 The sun has lost its soulless glare- 

 Earth, sea and sky are wondrous fair. 



—George Bancroft Griffith. 



