SPRING AT THE CAPITAL 129 
came the first strain of the song sparrow; so homely, 
because so old and familiar, yet so inexpressibly 
pleasing. Presently a full chorus of voices arose, 
tender, musical, half suppressed, but full of genuine - 
hilarity and joy. The bluebird warbled, the robin 
called, the snowbird chattered, the meadowlark 
uttered her strong but tender note. Over a de- 
serted field a turkey buzzard hovered low, and 
alighted on a stake in the fence, standing a moment 
with outstretched, vibrating wings till he was sure 
of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding day. Roads 
becoming dry in many places, and looking so good 
after the mud and the snow. I walk up beyond 
the boundary and over Meridian Hill. To move 
along the drying road and feel the delicious warmth 
isenough. The cattle low long and loud, and look 
wistfully into the distance. I sympathize with 
them. Never a spring comes but I have an almost 
irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadic or mi- 
grating instinct or reminiscence stirs within me. I 
ache to be off. 
As I pass along, the high-hole calls in the dis- 
tance precisely as I have heard him in the North. 
After a pause he repeats his summons. #’ What can 
be more welcome to the ear than these early first 
sounds! They have such a margin of silence!” 
One need but pass the boundary of Washington 
city to be fairly in the country, and ten minutes’ 
walk in the country brings one to real primitive 
woods. he town has not yet overflowed its limits 
like the great Northern commercial capitals, and 
