EL CAPITAN 
’T is always morning somewhere, 
And above the awakening continents from shore to shore 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 
Longfellow. 
E arly in March, soon after the arrival 
of the three meadow larks, a flock of 
jolly rollicking red-winged blackbirds took 
possession of the woods along the marshy 
field. Careless of wind and weather, they 
piped their gay ‘‘ Konkaree ” on bright and 
gray days, insisting, in spite of the snow, that 
Spring is here.” Evidently the calendar; 
not the weather man, makes the blackbirds’ 
Springtime. When the icy winds blew and 
the sleet covered all the trees, I wondered 
where they were, and whether cold and 
hunger would drive them southward again. 
But with the first sunshine out they came 
as merry as ever. I do not know how it 
may be ordinarily, but this flock evidently 
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