eed, there is nothing in the return of the birds more curious and
suggestive than in the first appearance, or rumors of the appearance, of
this little bluecoat.

The bird at first seems a mere wandering voice in the air; one hears its
call or carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertain of its
source or direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is
visible; one looks and listens, but to no purpose. The weather changes,
perhaps a cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I
hear the note again, and this time or the next perchance see the bird
sitting on a stake in the fence, lifting his wing as he calls cheerily
to his mate. Its notes now become daily more frequent; the birds
multiply, and, flitting from point to point, call and warble more
confidently and gleefully.

Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, sometimes in March, but in
most of the Northern states April is the month of the robin. In large
numbers they scour the field and groves. You hear their piping in the
meadow, in the pasture, on the hillside. Walk in the woods, and the dry
leaves rustle with the whir of their wings, the air is vocal with their
cheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run, leap, scream,
chase each other through the air, diving and sweeping among the trees
with perilous rapidity.

In that free, fascinating, half work and half play pursuit,--sugar
making,--a pursuit which still lingers in many parts of New York, as in
New England, the robin is one's constant companion. When the day is
sunny and 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 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.

Another April bird, which makes her appearance sometimes earlier and
sometimes later than Robin, and whose memory I fondly cherish, is the
Phoebe bird, the pioneer of the fly catchers. In the inland fanning
districts, I used to notice her, on some bright morning about Easter
Day, proclaiming her arriv