100 ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



boundary is marked by a line of white 

 willows, while on its southern side is a 

 " stumpy " cow pasture. Tall oaks, whose 

 naked branches trace myriads of veins 

 against the cold winter sunset, command 

 the western and northern limits. 



To the oaks and thickets in the win- 

 ter comes the bold, northern shrike, and 

 small troops of chickadees, downy wood- 

 peckers, creepers and nuthatches, ransack 

 the seven apple-trees I call my orchard. 

 In marshes of this rus in urbe I find the 

 first skunk cabbages, and in its meadows 

 the first dandelions, buttercups, and daisies 

 appear. The white willows, even in March, 

 begin to show signs of life, and the red 

 maples on the pond's bank turn fuzzy 

 and misty at the death of winter. 



Many an hour have I spent, sitting on 

 the trunk of a fallen maple and watch- 

 ing the sojourning fox sparrows as they 

 scratched among the underbrush, and 

 listened to their glad song, which is the 

 sweetest of the season. Here also from 

 the swaying branches of a patch of alders 

 the red-wings shout their " quonk-a-ree." 

 Each spring a pair of kingfishers arrive in 

 April at the pond, though what they find 



