BY THE WAYSIDE 
OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE WISCONSIN AND ILLINOIS AUDUBON SOCIETIES 
Year, 25 Cents Illinois Number One Year, 25 Cents 
Published by the Wisconsin Audubon Society- 
Entered January 27, Milwaukee, Wis., as second-class matter, under Act of Congress of March }, 1870 
“• VI. FEBRUARY, 1904 No. 10 
Spring House-Cleaning- 
)me, come, we must hurry!” Dame Nature 
cries 
en the days grow long and the last snow 
Hies. 
le house is really in such a state, 
: maids must work both early and late. 
■re’s company coming; for Summer—the 
dear!— 
• usual visit will make this year. 
1 fit for her bonny bright eyes to see, 
apple-pie order the house must be.” 
n first comes March with a brisk new broom, 
1 a smart rattan for whipping. 
■ whistle’s as clear as a blackbird’s trill; 
beats and shakes with a right good will; 
brushes the webs from the ceilings high; 
sweeps the nooks and corners dry, 
the dust clouds whirl and the dead leaves 
fly; 
!• she answers the querulous passerby 
h a tongue both pert and nipping. 
il next to the clean swept room 
h mop and pail comes skipping, 
skirts tucked up from her ankles neat, 
iinbow smile in her dimples sweet, 
follows her sister—spatter and splash! 
u-ever she pauses the big drops dash, 
the house is shining from sill to sash, 
the windows bright in the sunshine flash, 
the very walls are dripping! 
of all, with her cheeks abloom, 
at May comes daintily tripping, 
spreads the carpets of dazzing sheen, 
hangs the curtains of leafy green. 
iuch of her fingers deft and fair 
never a nook nor a niche is bare, 
sprinkles with perfume all the air, 
sets her flower bowls everywhere 
4 buds of the freshest clipping. 
“Now we are ready!” the housewife cries. 
“The maids may rest till the next snow flies!” 
And fresher and fairer than ever before 
The house will sparkle from ceiling to floor, 
When Summer knocks at the good dame’s door. 
—From St. Nicholas. 
An Old Quarrel. 
It was one morning in April that a bluebird 
lit on my window sill—a blue- bird, not a new 
bird, understand, for we are very old friends. 
He has been a neighbor of mine for years—a 
part, at least, of every year for a decade—and 
comes to Twig Lodge every spring as regularly 
as possible. 
“Well, friend, how aie you? Welcome to 
Virginia again! When did you leave the 
South?” I said in greeting, but had no answer; 
for a moment, indeed, was thinking him rude 
and surly for a traveled bird, when he cocked 
his head to one side, as if listening, and, look¬ 
ing down, said: “There they are! At it again! 
They have been quarreling in just this way, 
now, ever since anything was anywhere. There’s 
a regular feud between them. Hark!” 
O 
“Between who?” said I, curiously, regardless 
of grammar. 
“Between them ,” replied he, impatiently. 
“They are all alike. Hark! Don’t you see 
that snowflake down below and that blade of 
grass ?” 
“Where are you going? I don’t hear any¬ 
thing,” said I. But he was off, and I was about 
to leave the window when I was arrested by the 
sound of voices, very fine and clear, and appar¬ 
ently at some distance from me. I stopped and 
listened; I was so taken by surprise and so in¬ 
terested that I quite forgot that one should 
never listen to conversation not intended for 
one. I didn’t remember ever to have heard I 
mustn’t listen for fully a week, and this was 
the dialogue: 
►Snowflake: “Well, the season is over, thank 
