coming as no other can. Now the whippoorwill proclaims his apt naming, as evening closes in, while his nighthawk cousin booms an accompaniment as he wheels through the air above. The wood pigeon’s lament comes throbbing through the warm morning air, confirming his right to his other and better known “mourning dove” title. To drown the pigeon’s dirge-like plaint may now be heard the rollicking song of the goldfinch, his song and flight dipping in unison as he goes his careless way. With still another contrast comes the clucking cuckoo’s grumble as if in excuse for his tardy arrival. Now listen, for the chorus is complete! Though but few have been named, they are best known and with the unnamed larger half compose nature’s magnificent if sometimes inharmonious symphony. Among those unnamed are to be found many fully the equals of those so imperfectly represented in the preceding pen pictures. In fact, the wood thrushes and warblers unmentioned are as finished vocal performers as any of those heard in the open. Also in beauty and brilliancy of coloring some of the shyer and more silent wood residents eclipse their brethren of the fields. But birds are not learned in a day. Later on the student’s eye and ear will begin to recognize such flashy men of color as Messrs. Tanager, Towhee, Redstart, Waxwings, Redpoll and scores of others making up the lengthy list of warblers, thrushes, wrens, flycatchers and others less well known, especially by voice, which is often discordant in proportion to attractiveness of plumage. These fragmentary glimpses and sound pictures of our flitting friends have been attempted with the intention of introducing them to the ear rather than to the eye. Too much importance is often attached to the appearance to the neglect of aural attractions. Nothing can exceed the pleasure afforded the enthusiast in ornithology when able to readily distinguish his feathered friends by songs, notes, trills, and twitters making up their repertoires. As their voices greet him when awakening, no calendar is needed to trace the advancing seasons. The new voices added to the morning chorus and its diminishing volume as summer departs gives audible record to the ear familiar with bird-voice harmony. Again, when abroad in pursuit of duty or pleasure, a single note is sufficient to introduce to his ear a new or old-time friend. He well knows the first glimpse will disclose a dull or bright-hued coat, whose owner’s eyes are even then scanning him from some well concealed cover. If the learner would fully appreciate the charms of his bird acquaintances he should study each individual until known not only by appearance while at rest, but in every light, shade, attitude and movement, and he should study his voice until it is recognizable whether in full-throated song or modulated call or whistle. An occasional hour or vacation may accomplish much, and that often at our very doors; but to know these breezy, beautiful habitants aright city walls must be left behind.

Museum specimens, except for reference, must be shunned as inert, lifeless and voiceless. The bird only known by appearance is but half known. When known and understood their observers become their champions whose arms and voices will ever be raised to prevent their wanton destruction.

B. F. W. Thorpe.

THE SPIRIT OF SPRING.

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.