SPRING'S HARBINGERS
Amy was awakened on the following morning by innumerable bird-notes, not
songs, but loud calls. Hastening to the window, she witnessed a scene
very strange to her eyes. All over the grass of the lawn and on the
ground of the orchard beyond was a countless flock of what seemed to her
quarter-grown chickens. A moment later the voice of Alf resounded through
the house, crying, "The robins have come!" Very soon nearly all the
household were on the piazza to greet these latest arrivals from the
South; and a pretty scene of life and animation they made, with their
yellow bills, jaunty black heads, and brownish red breasts.
"_Turdus migratorius_, as the doctor would say," remarked Burt; "and
migrants they are with a vengeance. Last night there was not one to be
seen, and now here are thousands. They are on their way north, and have
merely alighted to feed."
"Isn't it odd how they keep their distance from each other?" said Webb.
"You can scarcely see two near together, but every few feet there is a
robin, as far as the eye can reach. Yes, and there are some high-holders
in the orchard also. They are shyer than the robins, and don't come so
near the house. You can tell them, Amy, by their yellow bodies and brown
wings. I have read that they usually migrate with the robins. I wonder
how far this flock flew last--ah, listen!"
Clear and sweet came an exquisite bird-song from an adjacent maple. Webb
took off his hat in respectful greeting to the minstrel.
"Why," cried Amy, "that little brown bird cannot be a robin."
"No," he answered, "that is my favorite of all the earliest birds--the
song-sparrow. You remember what Dr. Marvin said about him the other
evening? I have been looking for my little friend for a week past, and
here he is. The great tide of migration has turned northward."
"He is my favorite too," said his father. "Every spring for over seventy
years I remember hearing his song, and it is just as sweet and fresh to
me as ever. Indeed, it is enriched by a thousand memories."
For two or three days the robins continued plentiful around the house,
and their loud "military calls," as Burroughs describes them, were heard
at all hours from before the dawn into the dusk of night, but they seemed
to be too excited over their northward journey or their arrival at their
old haunts to indulge in the leisure of song. They reminded one of the
advent of an opera company. There was incessant chattering, a flitting to
and fro, bustle and excitement, each one having much to say, and no one
apparently stopping to listen. The majority undoubtedly continued their
migration, for the great flocks disappeared. It is said that the birds
that survive the vicissitudes of the year return to their former haunts,
and it would seem that they drop out of the general advance as they reach
the locality of the previous summer's nest, to which they are guided by
an unerring instinct.
The evening of the third day after their arrival was comparatively mild,
and the early twilight serene and quiet. The family were just sitting
down to supper when they heard a clear, mellow whistle, so resonant and
penetrating as to arrest their attention, although doors and windows were
closed. Hastening to the door they saw on the top of one of the tallest
elms a robin, with his crimson breast lighted up by the setting sun, and
his little head lifted heavenward in the utterance of what seemed the
perfection of an evening hymn. Indeed, in that bleak, dim March evening,
with the long, chill night fast falling and the stormy weeks yet to come,
it would be hard to find a finer expression of hope and faith.
The robin is a bird of contrasts. Peculiarly domestic in his haunts and
habits, he resembles his human neighbors in more respects than one. He is
much taken up with his material life, and is very fond of indulging his
large appetite. He is far from being aesthetic in his house or
housekeeping, and builds a strong, coarse nest of the handiest materials
and in the handiest place, selecting the latter with a confidence in
boy-nature and cat-nature that is often misplaced. He is noisy, bustling,
and important, and as ready to make a raid on a cherry-tree or a
strawberry-bed as is the average youth to visit a melon-patch by
moonlight. He has a careless, happy-go-lucky air, unless irritated, and
then is as eager for a "square set-to" in robin fashion as the most
approved scion of chivalry. Like man, he also seems to have a spiritual
element in his nature; and, as if inspired and lifted out of his grosser
self by the dewy freshness of the morning and the shadowy beauty of the
evening, he sings like a saint, and his pure, sweet notes would never
lead one to suspect that he was guilty of habitual gormandizing. He
settles down into a good husband and father, and, in brief, reminds one
of the sturdy English squire who is sincerely devout over his prayer-book
on proper occasions, and between times takes all the goods the gods send.
In the morning little Johnnie came to the breakfast-table in a state of
great excitement. It soon appeared that she had a secret that she would
tell no one but Amy--indeed, she would not tell it, but show it; and
after breakfast she told Amy to put on her rubber boots and come with
her, warning curious Alf meanwhile to keep his distance. Leading the way
to a sunny angle in the garden fence, she showed Amy the first flower of
the year. Although it was a warm, sunny spot, the snow had drifted there
to such an extent that the icy base of the drift still partially covered
the ground, and through a weak place in the melting ice a snow-drop had
pushed its green, succulent leaves and hung out its modest little
blossom. The child, brought up from infancy to feel the closest sympathy
with nature, fairly trembled with delight over this _avant-coureur_ of
the innumerable flowers which it was her chief happiness to gather. As if
in sympathy with the exultation of the child, and in appreciation of all
that the pale little blossom foreshadowed, a song-sparrow near trilled
out its sweetest lay, a robin took up the song, and a pair of bluebirds
passed overhead with their undulating flight and soft warble. Truly
spring had come in that nook of the old garden, even though the mountains
were still covered with snow, the river was full of floating ice, and the
wind chill with the breath of winter. Could there have been a fairer or
more fitting committee of reception than little Johnnie, believing in all
things, hoping all things, and brown-haired, hazel-eyed Amy, with the
first awakenings of womanhood in her heart?