— 493 — 



from me. Listening to this strain on the lone mountain, with 

 the full moon just rounded from the horizon, the pomp of 

 your cities and the pride of your civilization seemed trivial 

 and cheap." 



How often, too, have I not listened to the ethereal, 

 flute-like tinkle of the Orpheus of our deep woods, the 

 Hermit Thrush, homeward wafted from the green domes 

 of Spencer Wood, at dewy morn, when the sun-god 

 suffused with purple and gold the nodding pinnacles of 

 my dear old Pines and spreading Elms, or at the close 

 of those gorgeous sunsets, with which spring consoles 

 us for our January storms ! And yet, have I not too been 

 told, that " in Canada there were no song-birds ! " 



THE FIRST SWALLOW OF THE SEASON. 



To the lovers of birds, and the number is sure to 

 increase where ever the social, winning or mysterious 

 ways of the feathered race get to be better known, there 

 is an individual whose annual re - appearance is 

 associated with more particular dates ; under this head- 

 ing, one likes to count that fleet, tireless wanderer by 

 land and sea, the Swallow. 



When the vernal, upward flow of the sap has ceased 

 in our hardwood forests ; when winter-haunted groves, 

 pastures and moors are just donning their dainty, 

 emerald tints under the jocund rays of an April sun ; 

 when the daisy, the violet, the crocus, the hepatica are 

 longing to send forth their blossoms and fragrance ; 

 when the ambient air is buoyant with the hum of 

 insect-life, when the Rossignol, the Eobin, the Hermit- 

 Thrush let drop from the swelling, odoriferous maple- 

 tops or feathery pines, their gushing, soft or metallic 

 roundelays, when, in fact,- festive Nature seems all 

 aglow with returning spring, there dawns, for us an 

 auspicious date, to every Briton passing dear — St. 

 George's Day, of April, the 23rd. It is then that for the 

 denizens of picturesque, albeit cold Quebec, arrive 



