It came to me this morning, in my room, and filled my whole being with a
subtle feeling of delight and mysterious glad expectancy. When I went
downstairs they told me that it was colder than yesterday; that the
thermometer registered 14 degrees above zero. But what care I for the
thermometer? What does it know about spring?
Spring is a spirit which takes possession of the air, be it hot or cold,
and makes one’s heart sing for joy.
The crows kept telling me the glad news, “Spring has come!” all the time
I was dressing, and it was echoed in the tufted tit’s questioning note
when he flew round the house to his breakfast on the window sill. When I
started out for my morning walk the very air seemed filled with tiny
voices proclaiming the good tidings.
I had not gone far before I heard a cardinal singing gloriously, his
song answering the one in my own heart; and the theme was ever, “Spring
has come!”
But the crowning surprise and joy of all came when I had reached the
brook pasture. I stopped, listened and caught my breath; could it be on
the 27th of February? Yes, a song sparrow! No one who is unacquainted
with the purity and simple charm of this bird’s song, which breathes of
all that is fair and good, can understand or appreciate the rapture I
felt upon hearing it again this morning. Going on a little farther I
heard another song sparrow; the two were singing by turns, answering
each other in sweetest melody. One could scarcely wait until the other
had finished his strain, so eager were they to pour out the good news.
Oh, if you who are tired or dull indoors will only go out these mornings
and fill your lungs with the pure air of heaven and your hearts with the
rapture of spring, how many of your cares will drop away! Nature’s
myriad voices will talk to you if you will listen; the birds will sing
to you the sweetest music in the world—God’s love in melody.
This joy in the beauties of Nature may be yours if you will; do not
allow such a precious gift to escape you. It is beyond price, yet free
to all. Each year adds to the wonder and value of Nature’s treasures;
they are ever new, ever more and more welcome with each returning
season. Happy are they who know and love them well.
Anne Wakely Jackson.
FROM AN ORNITHOLOGIST’S YEAR BOOK.
FLUTE OF ARCADY.
In Ohio are many wide, grassy fields, covering the rounded hillslopes or
filling open valleys. One day in March the world was white with snow,
and I heard, as if in a dream, the soft cooing of the doves. Never
before had I heard it except on sunny afternoons in pine woods, rich
with warm, resinous odors. It is hardly a sound—rather silence
perceptible, blending so perfectly with the sunshine, the hushed and
brooding stillness of the air, the half-conscious sense of life, that I
would often hear it a long while without knowing that I listened—the
soft, tremulous cooing of the wood-doves, yet here the earth was white
with snow and the air chill.
But the doves were right. Spring was near, and in a little while the
feathery grass was nodding in the warm wind, gray and hazy, as the great
white clouds swept overhead with wing-like shadows, or shining, each
tiny blade like burnished steel, in the sunlight. The cooing of the
doves had been only a low prelude; now the air was ringing with melody.
“N’er a leaf was dumb;
Around us all the thickets rung
To many a flute of Arcady.”
The fresh, glad songs of the western meadow larks! Everywhere,
everywhere, the air was vibrant with the poignant sweetness of their
silvery voices; everywhere you might see the shining yellow of their
breasts as they rose with strong wing; everywhere you might perhaps
chance to stumble upon some nest of woven grasses. Often with arched
covering, on the very ground, with the dear little brownish mother
bending over four or six white eggs, freckled with cinnamon spots. It is
the season of the larks, and earth and sky are more lovely for the magic
of their singing. One hardly knows how to describe it in words. Spring
o’ the year! Spring o’ the year! it seems to say to the listener, both
in the east and west, but the song of the western meadow lark has a
richer melody, a more piercing delight. It seems to talk of forgotten
things; of youth and first hopes; first love; it has all the glamour of
the far-away, and yet a sweetness of the near. It rises from the thick
grass at your feet, yet it mounts towards the blue sky! It is a
veritable Flute of Arcady blown with a breath of joy.
Ella F. Mosby.
The dogwood blossoms white as snow
Their favors now to rambler show,
And where the Winter’s latest drift
Through the dark moss did silent sift,
All blossomed-starred, above the ground
The shy arbutus now is found.
The cloud-capped mountains all appear
With verdant slopes and summits clear;
The sun has lost its soulless glare—
Earth, sea and sky are wondrous fair.
—George Bancroft Griffith.
[Illustration: RED-BACKED SANDPIPER.
(Tringa alpina pacifica.)
¾ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE RED-BACKED SANDPIPER.
(_Tringa alpina pacifica._)
The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach,
Ready to mount and fly;
Whenever a ripple reaches their feet
They rise with a timorous cry.
—Duncan Campbell Scott, “Sandpipers.”
Very early in the spring the Red-backed Sandpiper leaves its winter home
in the States and countries bordering the Gulf of Mexico and starts on
its long journey to the cooler region of the far north. It arrives in
Alaska early in May, in full breeding plumage, and the males are soon
engaged in prettily wooing the coy females. Mr. Nelson, who had
unexcelled opportunities for studying the habits of these interesting
sandpipers, well describes their courting habits. He says: “The males
may be seen upon quivering wings flying after the female and uttering a
musical, trilling note, which falls upon the ear like the mellow tinkle
of large water-drops falling rapidly into a partly filled vessel.
Imagine the sounds thus produced by the water run together into a steady
and rapid trill some five or ten seconds in length, and the note of this
Sandpiper is represented. It is not loud, but has a rich, full tone,
difficult to describe, but pleasant to hear. As the lover’s suit
approaches its end the handsome suitor becomes exalted, and in his
moments of excitement he rises fifteen or twenty yards, and hovering on
tremulous wings over the object of his passion, pours forth a perfect
gush of music, until he glides back to earth exhausted, but ready to
repeat the effort a few minutes later. The female coyly retreats before
the advance of the male, but after various mishaps each bird finds its
partner for the summer and they start off house-hunting in all the ardor
of a rising honeymoon.”
The Red-backed Sandpiper is not a bird architect and it does not build
even a simple home. A slight hollow on a dry knoll, which commands a
clear view of some body of water, is the site usually selected. Here the
eggs are laid, either upon the dry grass already in the hollow or upon a
few bits of leaves, twigs and grass hastily gathered and placed without
order. After the appearance of the eggs the male seems to realize the
responsibility of family cares, for his merry song ceases and he devotes
his share of time to sitting on the nest, protecting the eggs with his
warm body. That this is the case is shown by the bare patches that
appear on his breast at this season.
With such a home as is prepared for their reception, it is not
surprising that the little red-backs leave the nest as soon as they are
hatched and freely run about. When frightened they readily conceal
themselves by sitting on the ground and remaining quiet.
This species exhibits considerable variation in the color of its
plumage. In the spring and summer it may be known by the black patch on
the belly and reddish color of its back, which is mottled with white and
black. At this season it is often called Blackbreast. In the fall and
winter the upper parts are brownish-gray in color and the under parts
are whitish. It is then frequently called the Leadback. The Red-back is
not as active as the other sandpipers and its unsuspicious nature makes
it seem quite stupid. Though a beach bird, it is not infrequently met in
grassy marshes, and by some it is called the Grass-bird.