14 A FORWARD MARCH. 



bristles attached to one of the minute, long- 

 stalked nutlets, scarcely larger or heavier than 

 one of these downy wings. How far away they 

 must be blown, farther than Boreas travels or the 

 south-wind flies. They are the sport of every 

 gale or zephyr. Eastward, westward, hither and 

 thither, like shuttle-cocks, they go, the winds 

 playing battledore with them. 



The old war-god, on the twenty-ninth day of 

 his supremacy, orders his batteries into the armory, 

 "the cave of the winds," and welcomes his sub- 

 jects at his morning's door with a calm and smil- 

 ing face. People everywhere are praising his 

 extraordinary good nature. The young inhabit- 

 ants inquire of the oldest ones if they remember 

 seeing such a mild March. Passers-by, instead 

 of asking the usual question, salute each other 

 by complimenting the weather, and take it for 

 granted that all who are out, inhaling the tonic 

 air, are well, or on the road to health. 



Such a beautiful spring-tide morning brings to 

 us waves of birds. The air is full of bluebird 

 music wreath-notes, and the song sparrow dis- 

 courses pleasantly. A party of red polls are lisp- 

 ing in the alders by the stream. They cling to the 

 twigs almost invariably with their backs downward,' 

 and nod and cant their heads, and peer between 

 the thick, black woody scales of the last year's fer- 

 tile catkins, as if they were considering the best 



