NATURE'S REALM. 179 
into a pine tree, to mourn for her true love 
evermore ? 
Those who dwell in a rugged country, on the 
outer hem of the wilderness, so to speak, hear 
certain wild sounds that never greet less fa- 
vored ears—the bark of the fox, the quavering 
call ofthe raccoon, and the blood-curdling cry 
of the panther screaming at night in the moun- 
tains. Thoreau says that, ‘‘ generally speaking, 
a howling wilderness does not howl,” but per- 
haps he had never heard that awful wail of the 
panther, shuddering through the hills like the 
cry of a lost soul. 
With the advent of spring all Nature becomes 
vocal. Up from the marshes and lowlands 
comes the cricket-like call of the hylas, a plain- 
tive, soothing sound, and yet one that stirs us 
unaccountably. It calls back to life thoughts 
that have been dead a year, reviving in our 
sluggish brain recollections of other spring days 
long since gone by, with all their precious asso- 
ciations. No man’s memory is adequate to the 
calling up of the past by his own volition, either 
by following through consecutively the events 
of his life or attempting to group them. Little 
fragments of his past existence would be lost to 
him but for such reminders as the odor of a 
flower, the sight of a once familiar object, or a 
sound for a long time unheard. 
Almost before the spring arrives, while the 
snow lies in drifts along the fences, and every 
hollow in the meadows is a grassy lake, there 
comes a sound which makes us stop and listen, 
and thrills us with a glad surprise. It is the 
voice of the bluebird, the pioneer of the return- 
ing songsters. How we welcome him, the 
pretty wanderer, ‘shifting his light load of song 
from post to post along the cheerless fence.” 
Others may sing more sweetly and wear more 
splendid clothes, but he comes first and gets 
into our hearts before his tardy followers ar- 
rive. If he were—as perhaps he is—a messen- 
ger from God, and took his azure tint from the 
infinite blue through which he came, he could 
not be more gladly received or bring to us a 
purer pleasure. ‘Sweet harbinger of spring !” 
May thy courage never be less, and may our 
northern winds ever blow gently upon thee. 
When the robjns come we feel as if it were 
ime to bestir ourselves and begin our spring 
work, Of all the feathered tribes they seem 
most to partake of our every-day life. Indus- 
trious, democratic, fearless, they take up their 
abode with us as a matter of course, building 
their nests under our very noses, and hopping 
about our lawns with a confidence that comes 
of assured possession. In the matin hymn of 
the birds they take a leading part; when the 
others are silent at midday we still hear their 
soft cluck, and at eventide, from the tops of the 
tall trees, with heads uplifted and with thoughts 
far above the dull earth, they pour out their 
song of thanksgiving. 
Soon our ears are greeted with the full chorus 
of bird voices. From the cool and shady re- 
cesses of the forest, where he loves to sing, 
comes the thrilling music of the wood thrush, 
and after each April shower the jubilant cat- 
bird relieves his soul of its burden of song. 
From the remote thicket issues the cuckoo’s 
soft, penetrating croak, and the boom of the 
night hawk is heard in the land. High in air 
the “‘sky-swung” hawk utters his piercing cry, 
and rippling over the fields comes the long, 
melodious call of the yellow-hammer. Dis- 
tance softens harsh sounds into harmony, and 
the barking of dogs and the tinkling of the cow 
bells far within the wood, is music to the ear. 
Even the crickets chirp in harmony, and what 
would otherwise be a blur of sound becomes a 
rythmical ticking that soothes rather than dis- 
turbs. ‘‘Sugar is not so sweet to the palate as 
sound to a healthy ear,” and he who is quickest 
to discern and interpret it, who loves the song 
of the bobolink, the wild cackle of the great 
black woodpecker and the hum of the bees 
among the apple blossoms, has a source and 
supply of enjoyment that money cannot buy. 
He who listens well will discover a striking 
succession of sounds in Nature, one fading into 
another as time goes on. After the peep of the 
hyla comes the trump of the bullfrog, and later 
on the trill of the summer toad. If our hearing 
were keen enough we could perhaps have heard 
the lisp of the polywog first of them all. The 
z-z-zing of the locust, with its crescendo and 
diminuendo, precedes the din of the August 
piper, while that in turn is followed by the chirp 
of the cricket, and, last of all, the rasp of the 
katydid. 
