tion of vanity. You may hear him in the pine 

 grove, apparently gargling his throat, which is 

 meant for a gay roulade to please the ear of some 

 dusky beauty lingering near and perhaps afFefting 

 indifference. This is only a prelude to the aston- 

 ishing falsetto that sometimes follows, and which, 

 be it hoped, may prove more acceptable to Mile. 

 Corbeau than to our more critical ears. It is very 

 evident something is going on. The large flocks 

 of winter have given away to small and excited 

 bands which keep up a perpetual clamor. It is no 

 surprise, then, some day in March to detedt a crow 

 carrying twigs. 



At no other time is there such concerted sing- 

 ing among the song-sparrows as in these first days 

 of the arrival of any considerable flocks. From 

 bare fields and brown hedgerows arises this simple 

 and spontaneous expression of joy, a primitive in- 

 vocation to the goddess Spring, fresh and clear 

 and innocent as the morning itself. As they hop 

 about among the dry weeds, one will now and 

 then pick up a straw and hold it meditatively a 

 moment with some premonition of the nest. Pres- 

 ently they will be flitting among the still leafless 

 brambles and briers with an air of secrecy and im- 



17 



