deities utrUl BO gNs BUD i Belsr N it 
breast. He is easily identified by this small lavalliere — odd fashion for 
a male — and also by the slightly detached notes with which he nearly 
always begins his varied melodies. 
He must make a delightful husband, always cheerful, always ‘“gentle- 
joyful,” even under the somewhat trying circumstances of helping feed 
the third or fourth family brood. Surely his wife must be a very happy 
little creature, although she never tells us, leaving to her mate all the 
optimistic talking. From early March to late November he fills the fields 
and hedges with cheer; he is nothing if not social, and is devoted to the 
lowly nest in grass or little tree. 
The sun was low; it was time to begin our homeward trip, however 
reluctant. We had not seen the special object of our quest, but what 
matter? March joys of field and copse had been ours — real possessions 
that no one could pilfer! 
The wind had gone down, a benediction rested upon the woods. From 
apparently nowhere some thirty juncos, not “kiss-ing’”’ but. singing — a 
rare treat occasionally heard just before they leave us. The little song 
might not, perhaps, attract your attention if one junco gave it, but to 
hear thirty at once sing the clear, sweet little sort of trill is a thing to 
be always remembered. 
And once more from the thicket down the lane came to our ears the 
message of the song sparrow, the lover of hedges, shrubs and little trees, 
telling us “That lowly homes to heaven are near, in Sweet-sweet-sweet! 
very merry cheer.” 
THE EDGE OF APRIL 
Gray sky; gray mist; golden sands of Dune land; soft air a caress. 
Only one thing to sadden us enroute. There in the road lay a red- 
headed woodpecker, our ‘“flag-bird” of red, white and blue, his gorgeous 
crimson head making a brilliant splash of color on gray roadway. 
Early luncheon in a tiny dune restaurant, clean as the proverbial pin. 
A little table on which bloomed bravely a potted cineraria, drawn into the 
window for us. From this coign of vantage we could look down the 
village street of the hamlet into the woods. Such fresh eggs! Such 
buckwheat cakes and maple syrup! This particular brand had been 
intimately acquainted with a maple tree. 
Driving a few miles farther we reached “Heart’s Desire.” Much did 
we speculate as to the possible reason for christening the shacky little 
place, half restaurant, half shop, this provocative name. A romance 
perhaps, tucked away, well out of sight. 
Our heart’s desire was to park the car safely. On asking permission 
to do so under a big tree near, we were assured it would be “just fine 
there”; so, care free, we started down the long road to the woods; every- 
where, pussy willows pushing off their caps to see what the edge of April 
looked. like. 
We came upon a rambling, old, apparently deserted farm house. Peep- 
ing through unshuttered windows, to our surprise, there was everything 
for comfort — all ready for the summer occupants, we guessed. It was 
