goldfinch also uses, many of the birds 
were singing a true song, subdued yet and 
fragmentary, but an evident attempt to 
recall the notes which they will later 
pour out over the stunted spruces of Labra¬ 
dor. There were little broken phrases 
suggesting a goldfinch's song, and a con¬ 
stant skree, a hoarse trill which in turn 
suggested the wheezy notes of the fine sis¬ 
kin. A man and a woman walked past under 
the trees where this concert was held, ap¬ 
parently unconscious that anything out of 
the ordinary was going on. Like Thoreau’s 
neighbor, the now immortal Spalding, they 
walked under the trees ignorant of the 
rare creatures which tenanted the upper 
branches. Mr. Dallas Lore Sharp, who 
is annoyed by the bird-faddists, would have 
been pleased to see their complete indiffer¬ 
ence. They were descendants of Peter 
Bell; a red-poll Lnnet was to them only 
a little bird. To us they -are rare visitors 
from distant lands; by their unfamiliar 
costumes and strange voices they suggest 
all the wonders of the Far North, the Es¬ 
kimo in his kayak, the blue ice mountains, 
the fur trade, and the great barrens over 
which the caribou wander. 
| When I left the red-polls they had set¬ 
tled in an apple orchard and were examin¬ 
ing the twigs, as if they found something 
there to their taste. It was evidently 
St. Valentine’s Day with many of them, 
for couples constantly broke from the 
main body, and pursued each other in and 
out of the branches. All the time the air 
was full of the sweet chorus from a hun¬ 
dred little throats. 
i From this orchard a lane bordered by 
a stone wall led along the hillside. The 
j bank of withered grass below the wall was 
; bathed in strong March sunshine, from 
the ’’yonge sonne” just entering his course 
' in the Ram. As I passed the wall tha 
smell of earth rose from the warm bank, 
that first promise of all the ferments and 
rich harvest which the marriage of the 
earth and sun will produce. It grips one 
like no other odor; not even the breath 
from a bank of violets stirs the inmost 
man like this smell of the mooild. A half- 
grown grasshopper kicked himself out of 
the grass as I walked on, a mourning- 
cloak butterfly fluttered out into the sun¬ 
shine, and from overhead came at last the 
sound for which my ears had been strain¬ 
ing all the morning, the ripple of a blue- 
biru’s song. 
Na tube About Boston 
ii. 
BY RALPH HOFFMANN 
A LOVER of the open air watches 
the advancing season as a parent 
watches the growth of his chil- 
, dren. - From time to time a child 
surprises his parents by some revelation 
I of unsuspected depth or maturity of 
character, the promise of manhood or wo¬ 
manhood under the careless, mask of 'child¬ 
hood. So there comes in March or April a ! 
1 morning when the blustering winds are up- 
i gathered like sleeping flowers, when the sod¬ 
den fields and bare boughs give promise of 
warmth and color, and the calm serenity of 
( summer seems t,o brood over the land. ; 
The hillside from which, on Saturday, 1 
March 23,1 began a long day’s outing fronts 
the east, and at this season It responds, like 
the statue of Memnon, to the rising sun. 
j As the first beams strike its slopes it be¬ 
comes vocal with the songs of many birds. 
I was wakened by a bluebird, singing from 
the tip of a neighboring elm. It was then 
six and till nearly six that evening, I was 
steeped, as it were, in bluebird music. I 
think I never In my life heard so much in j 
one day; it was forever in my ears. At first 
I tried to note the number that I heard, but 
by the time I reached 'Arlington Heights I 
gave up the attempt. Every apple orchard 
in Lexington, Bedford, Billerica and Bur¬ 
lington seemed to have its pair, while from 
time to time little groups of six or seven 
passed overhead to the orchards of the 
north. 
Song sparrows and snowbirds were the 
other chief elements in the bird life of the 
day. The song sparrows, like the bluebirds, 
were represented by both natives and mi¬ 
grant birds. The native birds were already 
In possession of their old haunts, while the 
migrants had taken refuge for the day in old 
brush-grown walls from which they scat¬ 
tered shyly over the adjoining grass land, ; 
to hurry back to shelter at the least alarm. 
Song sparrow music was universal; every 
style of melody, and every variety of voice 
was represented. If the electric car stopped 
for an Instant in the less settled regions, 
one could catch through the open door the 
burr or trill of a song sparrow. 
The snowbirds travel in compact flocks. 
I met five such companies during the day, 
each containing from thirty to fifty birds. 
Most of the birds seemed to be males, their 
pure white waistcoats contrasting sharply 
with their oluish-gray cowls; I did not notice 
a single female. One flock of snowbirds had 
a travelling companion—the first fox-spar¬ 
row that I had seen. (Has the gentle reader 
been enjoying them for a week?) H$ was 
singing, though not yet vigorously, and his 
fine rich notes brought me up, as they al¬ 
ways do, with a start of pleasure. They 
come loud and full from the midst of the 
tinkling castanets of the snowbirds and the 
rather thin chorus of the song sparrows. 
The objective point for the day was the 
hill-top of Burlington, by way of Bedford 
and Billerica. I wanted to get into a region 
where such a day actually means the be- i 
ginning of a new season. In a surburban i 
