The Rambles of an Idler 



the birds above it and now again in the warm 

 mud of the ditch — out of sight, out of mind — 

 I turn once more to the birds. I would I could 

 always tell which song of the morning is the 

 key-note of the day. It is a matter pf more im- 

 portance than many may believe. The pee-wee 

 is abroad and were its mournful note taken as 

 your cue, the day would be less exuberant and 

 enthusiasm be repressed. There are days when 

 the pee-wee is their best historian — languid 

 August days for instance, when exertion means 

 great labor for a slight return — ^but not to-day. 

 This is March 21st, the birthday of Action ; here, 

 on this particular dot on the earth's surface, the 

 true New Year's day. The day of Nature's own 

 appointment and the real day still. Man's in- 

 terference results in an illogical almanac, but 

 the facts are unaltered. The new season is 

 here. The cardinal proclaimed it. It will be 

 crowned later, when the violets are in bloom. 

 The cardinal proclaimed it and the polyglot 

 wren took up and re-told the story with added 

 energy, and the blue-bird whispered the secret 

 in the silent woods, and the robins shouted it 

 abroad after the world knew all about it. I ac- 

 cept the whistle of the cardinal as the key-note 



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