d the ground bare, you meet him at all points
and hear him at all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples,
with look heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols
his simple strain. And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, above
the wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there is
no fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round year. It is in keeping
with the scene and the occasion. How round and genuine the notes are,
and how eagerly our ears drink them in! The first utterance, and the
spell of winter is thoroughly broken, and the remembrance of it afar
off.

One of the most graceful of warriors is the robin. I know few prettier
sights than two males challenging and curveting about each other upon
the grass in early spring. Their attentions to each other are so
courteous and restrained. In alternate curves and graceful sallies, they
pursue and circumvent each other. First one hops a few feet, then the
other, each one standing erect in true military style while his fellow
passes him and describes the segment of an ellipse about him, both
uttering the while a fine complacent warble in a high but suppressed
key. Are they lovers or enemies? the beholder wonders, until they make a
spring and are beak to beak in the twinkling of an eye, and perhaps
mount a few feet into the air, but rarely actually deliver blows upon
each other. Every thrust is parried, every movement met. They follow
each other with dignified composure about the fields or lawn, into trees
and upon the ground, with plumage slightly spread, breasts glowing,
their lisping, shrill war-song just audible. It forms on the whole the
most civil and high-bred tilt to be witnessed during the season.

In the latter half of April, we pass through what I call the "robin
racket,"--trains of three or four birds rushing pell-mell over the lawn
and fetching up in a tree or bush, or occasionally upon the ground, all
piping and screaming at the top of their voices, but whether in mirth or
anger it is hard to tell. The nucleus of the train is a female. One
cannot see that the males in pursuit of her are rivals; it seems rather
as if they had united to hustle her out of the place. But somehow the
matches are no doubt made and sealed during these mad rushes. Maybe the
female shouts out to her suitors, "Who touches me first wins," and away
she scurries like an arrow. The males shout out, "Agreed!" and away they
go in pursuit, each