A LABRADOR SPRING 
where toads abound, it is rarely noticed ex- 
cept by the initiated, and to those who have 
not consciously heard it, it is rather difficult 
to describe. Gadow speaks of this love-song 
of the toad, for love-song it certainly is, as 
‘““a peculiar little noise, something like the 
whining bleat of a lamb.’’ As most people 
appear to be deaf to the bird notes and even 
bird songs that may actually fill the air about 
them, so are they also, but to an even greater 
degree, deaf to this humble music of the toad; 
a song which, from its association with the 
season at least, has its charms. The louder 
and better known notes of the hylas were 
absent on these shores. 
In these northern regions spring advances 
by bounds, and the saying that ‘‘ nature 
never makes leaps” was certainly contra- 
dicted by an experience on the eleventh day of 
June. On this day, while we were eating our 
dinner on the banks of the Romaine River, 
enjoying the wonderful beauty of the scene, lis- 
tening to the undertone of the rapids and the 
incisive song of the redstart, and breathing 
in the aromatic, incense-like perfume of the 
alder catkins, a birch, released by the melting 
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