SPRING ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS. 35 
boys were shooting the warbling vireos, supposing them 
to be purple finches from the resemblance of their sing- 
ing. I trust my explanations saved the remaining 
vireos, and to some extent lessened in the boys’ estima- 
tion the imaginary offenses of the finches. 
The arrival of the vivacious American gold finches is 
welcomed by all who like bright color and cheerful 
voices. Though loaded down with scientific names, the 
latest, (Spinus tristis), they remain the same sunny 
optimists, accepting life as a boon and not a burden. 
Their cheerfulness is contagious and their presence 
seems to light up the surroundings like the sunshine. 
They are gems in color and proportion. Their motions 
are peculiarly graceful, and whether in their undulatory 
billowy flight, or hanging head downward from the 
feathery top of a pasture thistle, every movement is the 
very “poetry of motion.” 
The other day while walking in the edge of a woods 
in search of the hepatica, I suddenly became conscious 
that a whirlwind of bright feathers and happy voices 
was over my head in the branches of a spreading maple. 
The tree had suddenly become alive with a chattering, 
musical foliage, more brilliant than the colored leaves 
that dropped from it last autumn. It was like the 
“talking oaks of Dodona.” A flock of at least fifty 
gold finches were taking possession of it, and a livelier, 
merrier, noisier tree-top one never saw. They were 
moving from branch to branch, continually changing 
places like the colors in a kaleidoscope, and singing, 
talking or calling at the same time. The tumult was 
