April 20, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
503 
March Bird Notes. 
By the first of March the oblong, flattened 
buds on the dooryard elm were perceptibly 
swollen. The tops of the poplars on high, 
rocky banks glistened in the increasing light, 
the buds on the most forward trees displaying 
their little sheaves of silvery down. The south 
slopes were partly bare and the creek hummed 
and pulsated under the ice. Early in the morn¬ 
ing there was a diffuse, rosy light on the drifted 
snow along the western hill, although the 
source of it was not yet visible. I heard the 
legato piping of nuthatches and the downy 
woodpecker marking excellent time on his 
in song at rare intervals in May or early June 
high in air, balancing on vibrant wings and 
finally falling like an arrow to the field. While 
the latter bird is evidently the prairie horned 
lark that sometimes nests as far east as the 
valley of the Hudson, I have wondered if the 
lark of our March uplands in the northern 
shore lark, for good authorities have not 
credited it with a song here in the States. 
On the 17th of the month, with one of the 
boys, I went to the woods to get two or three 
woodpeckers’ nests to replace those about the 
house that the downy woodpecker had 
maliciously scuttled during the winter. The 
creek was once more musical but not free from 
from the wood-pile with his simple, cheerful 
strain. 
The bluebirds and robins, it appeared, were 
wiser than the blackbirds and song sparrows, 
for on the 21st a cold northeast snowstorm, fol¬ 
lowed by another on the 24th, obliterated most 
signs of spring. On the morning of the 26th 
the thermometer registered zero, probably the 
lowest temperature ever recorded in this local¬ 
ity so late in March. Snow buntings were seen 
again in the fields. Tree sparrows, redpolls 
and purple finches were more numerous about 
the house than ever. Many song sparrows and 
juncos, and a solitary and distinguished-look¬ 
ing fox-sparrow joined the flock. 
Warmer days came at last. The March snow 
melted rapidly and aided not a little in dis¬ 
integrating the foundation of firmer snow and 
ice on which it rested. The creek, smothered 
and shrunken since the storm of the 21st, again 
found voice. The ice did not break up and pile 
THE CREEK IN SPRING. 
Photographs by Mrs. Christman. 
drum. All signs indicated the prompt advent 
of spring and the punctual return of birds. 
But a covering of snow and sleet again sealed 
the fields. The tree sparrows reappeared with 
the recurring cold, the lonely redpoll found 
a few friends afield and brought them in, and 
the pair of purple finches increased to a flock 
of five or six. The tropic color of the male 
redpolls and finches seen in the snowy garden 
redeemed the blustering days. 
I heard the first shy warbling of the shore 
or horned larks on March 4, a week after their 
first appearance. These birds are common 
along our upland roads, while the -fields are yet 
covered with snow, running and flying up again 
and again ahead of passing teams, and tiring 
of this at last wheeling out into the fields, 
uttering a single sorrowful note. Sometimes 
on mild or sunny days one will alight on the 
roadside wall, or, if the road is unfenced, on 
some bare stone or clod a rod or two away, 
warbling meanwhile like the grasshopper spar¬ 
row, a fine, furtive strain. They usually disap¬ 
pear in early April. 
This lark, while similarly marked, seems 
lighter colored than the one that I have heard 
ice, and the water ran smoothly over the 
polished surface. It was winter under the ever¬ 
greens still and everywhere on north slopes, 
but the snow had disappeared among the oaks 
and poplars on the south side of Bill Williams’ 
hill, and the dry leaves rustling under our feet 
sent forth a faint but memorable fragrance. 
The chipmunk was out, and the woodchuck, too, 
had felt the change, opened his door, scraped 
the winter’s debris from the threshold and 
sharpened his teeth and claws on the nearest 
sapling. We heard the whispered chirp of tree 
sparrows skulking in the edge of the woods, 
and the strong voice of the crow proclaiming, 
or so we thought, a new era, from his lookout 
on one of the old pines. Then far away the call 
of a red-winged blackbird as he journeyed up 
the little branch to the swamp. From the top 
of the dead ash beyond the railroad, where he 
at last descended, was a sorry outlook, for 
thick, submerged ice still covered his domain 
of bog and flag. Nor was this the only spring 
bird we heard that day. Later, while we made 
ready the nests for the bluebirds, now a week 
or more overdue, and for the highholes, the 
first song sparrow of the season greeted us 
along the alternate levels as in previous years, 
but gradually wore away. By the last of the 
month the creek ran free. Every brook and 
rill contributed its mite to the inspiring com¬ 
motion. Every nook of the wild valley was 
filled with the sound, awakening all dormant 
things to renewed life and vigor. The clay 
banks, the dark cliffs of slate and gray walls 
of stratified rock dripped and poured the re¬ 
leased fluid. The very smell of the roiled flood 
refreshed and sharpened the senses. The first 
freshet of spring, the sap of the earth stream¬ 
ing down the unhealed wounds gouged by the 
old glaciers. 
A number of meadow larks had been seen as 
early as the 19th, and a bluebird and robin re¬ 
ported in nearby places. As yet we had heard 
only the blackbird and song sparrow, but when 
I went out of the house on the morning that 
the fox-sparrow departed, a bluebird descended, 
as it were, out of the sky and alighted in the 
top of the dooryard elm, where its mate had al¬ 
ready preceded it, and a robin in the butternut 
ushered in the belated spring with livelier joy 
and fresher hope than ever. 
Will W. Christman. 
