412 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 16, 1907. 
March Changes. 
After weeks of deep snows and keen and 
biting cold, the sun at last grows stronger. At 
mid-day, from the sunny side of wall or stack or 
barn, snow and ice melt and for a little while the 
water drips to earth, slowly freezing as the sun 
gets around to the west, and forming long 
pendants, icicles, which to-morrow will drip 
again. Snow storms still rage, but often the 
flakes that they carry are wet and plaster vertical 
walls and tree trunks with a white coating. 
Except where the red-faced choppers have 
sturdily swung their axes in getting out logs 
or fuel, for all these weeks the woods have been 
silent. High piled drifts lie in each hollow, and 
the stumps which in summer stand two or three 
feet above the ground, are now merely white 
pyramids of snow. The brooks for the most 
part are frozen and snow covered, and one may 
walk across them without knowing that they are 
there, but where there is a rapid fall and swift 
water, or where springs rise under the bank, 
there are stretches of dark open water that 
show up black against the purity of the snow. 
Down at the margin of warm spring holes the 
grass is as brightly green as in summer, and 
spread over the warm and constantly changing 
water lies a mat of verdant watercress. 
To the oaks and beeches which grow on the 
higher ridges still cling last summer’s withered 
leaves, faded, washed out and yellow. The 
light breeze that sweeps through the naked 
woods, too feeble to stir the twigs and branches, 
causes these leaves and the long loose curls of 
bark that hang from the gray birches to shudder 
as it passes. In the deep snow the walking is 
laborious, and one may best put on snowshoes 
or skis before trying to cross even a narrow 
patch of woods. So he may save himself much 
painful breaking through the crust, and ex¬ 
hausting labor. 
Alternate freezings and thawings of moderate 
noons and sharp cold nights have wiped out 
all the tracks made by the forest dwellers when 
the snow was new. But if there comes another 
fall, the woodland traveler will often see the 
small round tracks of the fox which daily makes 
his hunting round and following them in their 
devious wanderings as they pass along the fence, 
and zigzag from bush to bush, presently he may 
■find a little hole in the snow and near it a tuft 
of bluish fur and a drop of blood, telling of the 
discovery of some mouse which the red hunter 
has surprised and on which he has broken his 
morning fast. 
On bright mornings the gray squirrels leave 
their homes and search—at this season, too 
often in vain—for nuts and other food, and 
we may see their tracks running here and there 
over the snow and passing from one tree to an¬ 
other. Near the weed and brush-grown fences, 
or in thickets which in summer are impassable, 
the rabbits have moved about, close to a refuge 
of tangled stems into which if danger threatens 
they can plunge, and among which they can 
swiftly thread their ways while the puzzled pur¬ 
suer slowly follows. Perhaps one may cross 
the track of a dog which has wandered into the 
woods to hunt on his own account, but fruitlessly. 
At this season of the year the voices of the 
winter birds seem to take on a stronger note, 
as if they realized that happier times, when food 
would be more easily had, were now close at 
hand. The nuthatches and brown creepers 
still clamber up and down the tree trunks, king¬ 
lets and titmice hang upside down and study 
the lower sides of twig and branches. They feel 
the coming change, but are too busy to stop 
and think about it. 
The soft downy buds of the pussy willows 
have pushed their way out from the shining 
brown sheaths that have so long inclosed them. 
Beneath the snows the skunks’ cabbage is push¬ 
ing its way upward toward the light, the buds 
of all the earlier plants are swelling, while the 
sap is moving in the trees. The farmer has put 
his sugar bush in order; trees are tapped, fur¬ 
naces are lighted, kettles are boiling. 
As mild nights and warm winds increase, the 
brown bare spots in the fields grow larger, and 
plants begin to spring and flowers to bud. Small 
animals that have spent the winter curled up in 
a long sleep, or have lived their lives under 
the snow, now appear and rejoice in the warm 
sunshine. The ground hog has cleaned out the 
entrance to her hole and comes forth into the 
daylight, but not yet does she venture far from 
her home. 
The first hardy migrants among the birds 
have come or are on their way. Wild ducks 
and geese pass over, following close upon the 
reluctant ice. The woodcock, dear to the sports¬ 
man's heart; the phoebe, familiar friend about 
barn and house, are among the first of the sum¬ 
mer residents to come, and on warm nights to¬ 
ward the end of the month the curious mating 
song of the long-billed swamp lover is heard 
high in the air, while phoebe and her mate, loiter¬ 
ing about house, or barn, or bridge, or over¬ 
hanging rock cliff, are weighing in their minds 
the advantages of the nesting sites that offer 
themselves. Soon they will have made their 
choice, and on the ledge of some pillar of the 
porch will begin to heap up shreds of green 
moss, held together by mud and lined with long 
horse hairs. In the nest will soon appear the 
pearly white eggs dotted on the larger end with 
brown. 
As the month draws on, the blackbirds come; 
first the rusty grackles, then a few redwings, 
and then the greater crow blackbirds, brave with 
the sheen of spring plumage. As the warmth 
increases the redwings assemble in companies 
close to the water, and their gurgling calls are 
among the most familiar of the early songs of 
spring. Soon too, the hylas—the peepers—will 
begin to sound their spring notes. 
FIRST STAGE IN MODELING AN ANIMAL—MR. CLARK MAKING THE ARMATURE. 
