FEBRUARY. 47 



snow-drifts shone with as soft a light, jpink, pearly, and 

 pure, as' Paradise. And as I looked back from my door 

 oyer the wide meadows, the river, and that silent island 

 for the last time that day, I saw those mute, mysterious 

 crows returning to the old birch tree. 



There is one marked feature of February that merits 

 not mere mention only, but the skill of a ready writer to 

 do it justice. Often the night gives promise of a balmy 

 day, and I retire in hopes of greeting the welcome traces 

 of a spring-like morning ; but, however early I may be 

 abroad, the birds are sure to be astir before me. While 

 darkness still lingers on the wooded hill I reach the 

 meadows, only to find them all mist and music. The 

 wakeful tits call from the towering pines, the sparrows 

 twitter from the dripping shrubs. Through the thick air 

 wing the cawing crows, and restless redbirds whistle 

 through the gloom. 



And while I stand listening, there comes, borne upon 

 the soft south wind, a faint, tinkling note that thrills me 

 more than all other sounds. It can not be mistaken for any 

 other, and I know that the redwings are on the way. What- 

 ever the time of year, there are joyful experiences in store 

 for every rambler, but few that are more entrancing than 

 to greet the crimson-shouldered blackbirds when they 

 come in full force to the long-deserted meadows. It is 

 true there have been straggling birds both seen and heard 

 all through the winter, but now through their numbers 

 we have sweet assurance that the season's severity is well- 

 nigh over. 



It matters not that seldom, if ever, do these large flocks 

 come to stay. Enough to know that their sharp eyes have 

 detected some sign of spring. The fierce north winds 

 send them hurrying back all too soon, but from now 

 until April, as the wind varies, they drift to and fro. 



