THE SPRING RUSH. 



19 



stumble upon anything anywhere any time. Thus the 

 crossbills are supposed to be winter visitors only, but 

 they appeared to me in mid-summer at Wakefield. 

 For years I have been hunting for the fox sparrow, 

 who is supposed to be one of our earliest migrants. I 

 thought he had gone north a month ago; but last 

 Tuesday morning, May 13, I was aroused by what 

 Miss Merriam calls the * ' loud, ringing, liquid notes.' ' 

 I went out doors, expecting to find a prima donna, 

 either of the purple finch or grosbeak species. After 

 I had followed the inspiring song from tree to tree, I 

 was rewarded by seeing the bird stop to drink at the 

 pond in our garden. Then I discovered that, not- 

 withstanding his large size, he is the most sparrowy 

 of the sparrows, and that I had found my long-sought 

 bird, where I find everything, — in my back yard. 



Perhaps I may end, as I began, this little article 

 by a quotation from Richard Hovey, who seems to 

 me the very poet of the spring. It is from his poem 

 which begins, 



"Make me over, mother April, 

 When the sap begins to stir!" 



This is the stanza which I like: 



