choice of time, others seem to be quite independent of it. A 
certain small bird which is burdened with the ponderous name 
of the blue-gray gnatcatcher seems to time his arrival here 
almost as regularly as the sun. On April 29, rgor, I saw a 
gnatcatcher darting about in an oak back of my garden. 
He is sober in his coloring, grey and white, but a dashing 
fellow in his manners. He has a soft little “mew” which he 
utters like a miniature kitten, and he spreads and flutters his 
long slim tail like a fan, and has altogether a very engaging 
personality. On April 28th of the next year, I again strolled 
back of my garden and thought of my gnatcatcher, when 
voila! there he was, or his twin. On April 28, 1903, I went to 
the same spot to keep the tryst, and he was likewise faithful. 
Alas! in 1904 he did not meet me till May 6th, but perhaps 
it was my fault. On April 29th of 1905 I said to a com- 
panion, “I must go to meet my gnatcatcher,” and just then 
I heard his faint ‘“‘mew” coming from the thick oak woods, 
and caught a glimpse of the two white feathers in his tail as 
he flew like a shuttlecock from twig to twig. I only wished 
that he attached the same importance to the meeting that I 
did. How flattering it would be! Perhaps birds think we all 
look alike and would describe us in general terms, such as 
“that grey girl” or “that little brown girl.” I have often 
heard such vague descriptions of birds. 
How my spirits rise when I hear the first notes of the 
spring chorus! Perhaps the sweet piercing call of the meadow 
lark will be the first intimation that spring is here, or perhaps 
it will be the distant “honk, honk” of a flock of wild geese 
flying, as Thoreau says, “‘in a perfect harrow, cleaving their 
way toward the northeast with Napoleonic tactics, splitting 
the forces of winter.” But in any event you feel in the very 
marrow of your bones that the best season of the year has 
come, the season that, no matter how raw the east winds 
or how fierce and blustering its temper, seems to have such a 
contagious youth about it that it always takes several years 
from my age — years which I regret to say are all added on 
again, with one to carry every December. 
Following these pioneers in the spring migration come the 
fox sparrow, phoebe, junco, goldfinch, purple finch (these 
last three are sometimes with us all winter) field and vesper 
sparrows, and hosts of others arriving all through April and 
May. Some of these early birds are accomplished musicians. 
The fox sparrow, a big reddish-brown fellow who stays here 
a few weeks before he goes farther north, has a voice that is 
truly enchanting, so clear and sweet and pure, and with such 
a reposeful quality withal, that to hear him is a rest to the 
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